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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


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Sydney  Carton 

Etched  by  C.  A,  Walker  — From  Drawing  by  Fred 
erick  Barnard 


A 


Illustrated  Sterling  Bdltlon 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 

The  Lazy  Tour  of  Two  Idle  Apprentices 
The  Uncommercial  Traveller 

No  Thoroughfare 

BY 

CHARLES  DICKENS 


BOSTON 

DANA  ESTES  & COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


1^0  I 

j231IBRARY 


^f«^RADUAT 

library 


E 


^ TALE  OF 


TWO  CITIES 


‘ARE  THEY  VERY  LIKE  EACH  OTHER? ’’ 


PREFACE. 


When  I was  acting,  with  my  children  and  friends,  in  Mr. 
Wilkie  Collins’s  drama  of  ‘^The  Frozen  Deep,”  I first  con- 
ceived the  main  idea  of  this  story.  A strong  desire  was 
upon  me  then  to  embody  it  in  my  own  person ; and  I traced 
out  in  my  fancy  the  state  of  mind  of  which  it  would  neces- 
sitate the  presentation  to  an  observant  spectator,  with  par- 
ticular care  and  interest. 

As  the  idea  became  familiar  to  me,  it  gradually  shaped 
itself  into  its  present  form.  Throughout  its  execution,  it 
has  had  complete  possession  of  me ; I have  so  far  verified 
what  is  done  and  suffered  in  these  pages,  as  that  I have 
certainly  done  and  suffered  it  all  myself. 

Whenever  any  reference  (however  slight)  is  made  here 
to  the  condition  of  the  French  people  before  or  during  the 
Eevolution,  it  is  truly  made,  on  the  faith  of  trustworthy 
witnesses.  It  has  been  one  of  my  hopes  to  add  something 
to  ^he  popular  and  picturesque  means  of  understanding 
that  terrible  time,  though  no  one  can  hope  to  add  anything 
to  C.e  philosophy  of  Mr.  Carlyle’s  wonderful  book. 


' ,'  ■{yi4j^  ' .J^;'  . ^'^7^ 

'^((v/:if 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST— RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  The  Period,  . . . . , , . . .1 

II.  The  Mail, ...  4 

III.  The  Night  Shadows,  9 

IV.  The  Preparation, 13 

V.  The  Wine-shop, 25 

VI.  The  Shoemaker, .35 

BOOK  THE  SECOND— THE  GOLDEN  THREAD. 

1.  Pive  Years  Later,  . . . , . , . .47 

II.  A Sight,  . . . . . , . . . .53 

III.  A Disappointment,  .......  59 

IV.  Congratulatory,  . 72 

V.  The  Jackal,  78 

VI.  Hundreds  of  People,  84 

VII.  Monseigneur  in  Town, 96 

VIII.  Monseigneur  in  the  Country,  . . . . . .104 

IX.  The  Gorgon’s  Head, 110 

X.  Two  Promises, 121 

XI.  A Companion  Picture, 128 

XII.  The  Fellow  of  Delicacy, 132 

XIII.  The  Fellow  of  no  Delicacy,  139 

XrV.  The  Honest  Tradesman,  . . c . . . 144 

XV.  Knitting, 154 

XVI.  Still  Knitting, 165 

XVII.  One  Night, 175 

XVIII.  Nine  Days, 180 

XIX.  An  Opinion,  . 186 

XX.  A Plea,  ..........  194 

XXI.  Echoing  Footsteps,  . , . 197 


iv  CONTENTS.  t 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII.  The  Sea  still  Rises,  . . . « * . . 208 

XXIII.  Fire  Rises,  214 

XXIV.  Drawn  to  the  Loadstone  Rock,  ....  221 


BOOK  THE  THIRD— THE  TRACK  OP  A STORM, 


I.  In  Secret, 

. 233 

II.  The  Grindstone,  .... 

. 244 

III.  The  Shadow, 

. 251 

IV.  Calm  in  Storm,  .... 

. 255 

V.  The  Wood-sawyer, .... 

. 261 

VI.  Triumph, 

. ^67 

VII.  A Knock  at  the  Door,  . 

, 273 

VIII.  A Hand  at  Cards,  .... 

,278 

IX.  The  Game  Made,  .... 

« 291 

X.  The  Substance  of  the  Shadow, 

. 303 

XI.  Dusk, 

XII.  Darkness, 

. 321 

XIII.  Fifty-two, 

. 329 

XIV.  The  Knitting  Done, 

, 341 

XV.  The  Footsteps  die  out  For  ever,  . 

« 0 

, 858 

LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

By  Frederick  Barnard  and  J . McLenan 


PAGE 

Frontispiece 

DIPPED  IN 


Sydney  Carton  ..•••* 

He  scrawled  upon  a wall  with  his  finger 

muddy  wine -lees — Blood  .••••* 
“ He  had  sunk  in  her  arms,  with  his  face  dropped  on 

HER  breast” 

“ You’re  at  it  agin,  are  you  ? ” . 

“ Are  they  very  like  each  other  ? ’ . 

“ D— N it  all,  sir  ! Am  1 not  eligible  ? ” . 

Messrs.  Cruncher  and  Son  . . • • 

“You  are  again  the  prisoner  of  the  Republic 

“ This  IS  that  written  PAPER  ” 

“Write  exactly  as  I speak” 

“ And  stood  alone  — blinded  with  smoke  ” . 


26 

42 

60 

68 

134 

144 

278 

302 

334 

351 


UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 
By  G.  J.  Pinwell,  E.  G.  Dalziel  and  others 
“Stood  a creature  remotely  in  the  x.ikeness  of  a 

YOUNG  man” 

Mr.  Grazinglands  looked  in  at  a pastry-cook’s  window 

A City  Personage 

“This  is  a sweet  spot,  ain’t  it?  A lovelly  spot! 

“Then  you’re  a tramp,”  he  ses.  “I’d  rather  be  that 

THAN  A BEADLE,”  I SES  

Laundresses  . 

Time  and  His  Wife 

A Phenomenon  at  Titbulls 

Poodles  Going  the  Rounds 


17 

52 

86 

101 

106 

132 

228 

291 

339 


NO  THOROUGHFARE 

“It’s  from  the  best  corner  of  our  best  forty -five 

YEAR  OLD  BIN,”  SAID  Mr.  WiLDING  . . • • • 

They  were  struggling  desperately  in  the  snow 


Tale  of  Two  Cities 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

m THEBE  BOOKS. 


BOOK  THE  FIRST.-RECALLED  TO  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  PERIOD. 

It  was  the  best  of  times,  it  was  the  worst  of  times, 
it  was  the  age  of  wisdom,  it  was  the  age  of  foolishness,  it 
was  the  epoch  of  belief,  it  was  the  epoch  of  incredulity, 
it  was  the  season  of  Light,  it  was  the  season  of  Darkness,  it 
was  the  spring  of  hope,  it  was  the  winter  of  despair,  we 
had  everything  before  us,  we  had  nothing  before  us,  we 
were  all  going  direct  to  Heaven,  we  were  all  going  direct 
the  other  way — in  short,  the  period  was  so  far  like  the 
present  period,  that  some  of  its  noisiest  authorities  insisted 
on  its  being  received,  for  good  or  for  evil,  in  the  superlative 
degree  of  comparison  only. 

There  were  a king  with  a large  jaw  and  a queen  with  a 
plain  face,  on  the  throne  of  England;  there  were  a king 
with  a large  jaw  and  a queen  with  a fair  face,  on  the  throne 
of  France.  In  both  countries  it  was  clearer  than  crystal  to 
the  lords  of  the  State  preserves  of  loaves  and  fishes,  that 
things  in  general  were  settled  for  ever. 

It  was  the  year  of  Our  Lord  one  thousand  seven  hundred 
and  seventy-five.  Spiritual  revelations  were  conceded  to 
England  at  that  favoured  period,  as  at  this.  Mrs.  South- 
cott  had  recently  attained  her  five-and-twentieth  blessed 
birthday,  of  whom  a prophetic  private  in  the  Life  Guards 
had  heralded  thp  ‘announcing  that 


2 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


and  Westminster.  Even  the  Cock-lane  ghost  had  been  laid 
only  a round  dozen  of  years,  after  rapping  out  its  messages, 
as  the  spirits  of  this  very  year  last  past  (supernaturally 
deficient  in  originality)  rapped  out  theirs.  Mere  messages 
in  the  earthly  order  of  events  had  lately  come  to  the  Eng- 
lish Crown  and  People,  from  a congress  of  British  subjects 
in  America : which,  strange  to  relate,  have  proved  more 
important  to  the  human  race  than  any  communications  yet 
received  through  any  of  the  chickens  of  the  Cock-lane  brocM. 

France,  less  favoured  on  the  whole  as  to  matters  spir- 
itual than  her  sister  of  the  shield  and  trident,  rolled  with 
exceeding  smoothness  down  hill,  making  paper  money  and 
spending  it.  Under  the  guidance  of  her  Christian  pastors, 
she  entertained  herself,  besides,  with  such  humane  achieve- 
ments as  sentencing  a youth  to  have  his  hands  cut  off,  his 
tongue  torn  out  with  pincers,  and  his  body  burned  alive, 
because  he  had  not  kneeled  down  in  the  rain  to  do  honour 
to  a dirty  procession  of  monks  which  passed  within  his 
view,  at  a distance  of  some  fifty  or  sixty  yards.  It  is 
likely  enough  that,  rooted  in  the  woods  of  France  and 
Norway,  there  were  growing  trees,  when  that  sufferer  was 
put  to  death,  already  marked  by  the  Woodman,  Fate,  to 
comedown  and  be  sawn  into  boards,  to  make  a certain 
movable  framework  with  a sack  and  a knife  in  it,  terrible 
in  history.  It  is  likely  enough  that  in  the  rough  outhouses 
of  some  tillers  of  the  heavy  lands  adjacent  to  Paris,  there 
were  sheltered  from  the  weather  that  very  day,  rude  carts, 
bespattered  with  rustic  mire,  snuffed  about  by  pigs,  and 
roosted  in  by  poultry,  which  the  Farmer,  Death,  had  al- 
ready set  apart  to  be  his  tumbrils  of  the  Revolution.  But 
that  Woodman  and  that  Farmer,  though  they  work  unceas- 
ingly work  silently,  and  no  one  heard  them  as  they  went 
about  with  muffled  tread ; the  rather,  forasmuch  as  to  en- 
tertain any  suspicion  that  they  were  awake,  was  to  be 

atheistical  and  traitorous.  . j a 

In  England,  there  was  scarcely  an  amount  ot  order  and 
protection  to  justify  much  national  boasting.  Daring  burp 
laries  by  armed  men,  and  highway  robberies,  took  place  in 
the  capital  itself  every  night;  families  were  publicly  cau- 
tioned not  to  go  out  of  town  without  removing  thmr  furni- 
ture to  upholsterers’  warehouses  for  security;  the  highway 
- , , -i-oman  in  the  light,  ano- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


3 


whom  he  stopped  in  his  character  of  ‘Hhe  Captain,”  gal- 
lantly shot  him  through  the  head  and  rode  away;  the  mail 
was  waylaid  by  seven  robbers,  and  the  guard  shot  three 
dead,  and  then  got  shot  dead  himself  by  the  other  four,  “ in 
consequence  of  the  failure  of  his  ammunition ; ” after  which 
the  mail  was  robbed  in  peace;  that  magnificent  potentate, 
the  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  was  made  to  stand  and  deliver 
on  Turnham  Green,  by  one  highwayman,  who  despoiled 
the  illustrious  creature  in  sight  of  all  his  retinue;  prisoners 
in  London  gaols  fought  battles  with  their  turnkeys,  and 
the  majesty  of  the  law  fired  blunderbusses  in  among  them, 
loaded  with  rounds  of  shot  and  ball;  thieves  snipped  off 
diamond  crosses  from  the  necks  of  noble  lords  at  Court 
drawing-rooms;  musketeers  went  into  St.  Giles’s,  to  search 
for  contraband  goods,  and  the  mob  fired  on  the  musketeers, 
and  the  musketeers  fired  on  the  mob,  and  nobody  thought 
any  of  these  occurrences  much  out  of  the  common  way.  In 
the  midst  of  them,  the  hangman,  ever  busy  and  ever  worse 
than  useless,  was  in  constant  requisition;  now,  stringing 
up  long  rows  of  miscellaneous  criminals;  now,  hanging  a 
housebreaker  on  Saturday  who  had  been  taken  on  Tuesday; 
now,  burning  people  in  the  hand  at  Xewgate  by  the  dozen, 
and  now  burning  pamphlets  at  the  door  of  Westminster 
Hall;  to-day,  taking  the  life  of  an  atrocious  murderer,  and 
to-morrow  of  a wretched  pilferer  who  had  robbed  a farmer’s 
boy  of  sixpence. 

All  these  things,  and  a thousand  like  them,  came  to  pass 
in  and  close  upon  the  dear  old  year  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  seventy-five.  Environed  by  them,  while  the 
Woodman  and  the  Farmer  v/orked  unheeded,  those  two  of 
the  large  jaws,  and  those  other  two  of  the  plain  and  the 
fair  faces,  trod  with  stir  enough,  and  carried  their  divine 
rights  with  a high  hand.  Thus  did  the  year  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-five  conduct  their  Greatnesses, 
and  myriads  of  small  creatures — the  creatures  of  this 
chronicle  among  the  rest — along  the  roads  that  lay  before 
them. 


4 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  MAIL. 

It  was  the  Dover  road  that  lay,  on  a Friday  night  late 
in  November,  before  the  first  of  the  persons  with  whom 
this  history  has  business.  The  Dover  road  lay,  as  to  him,i 
beyond  the  Dover  mail,  as  it  lumbered  up  Shooter’s  Hill. 
He  walked  up  hill  in  the  mire  by  the  side  of  the  mail,  as 
the  rest  of  the  passengers  did;  not  because  they  had  the 
least  relish  for  walking  exercise,  under  the  circumstances,! 
but  because  the  hill,  and  the  harness,  and  the  mud,  and 
the  mail,  were  all  so  heavy,  that  the  horses  had  three  times 
already  come  to  a stop,  besides  once  drawing  the  coach 
across  the  road,  with  the  mutinous  iutent  of  taking  it  back 
to  Blackheath.  Reins  and  whip  and  coachman  and  guard, 
however,  in  combination,  had  read  that  article  of  war  which 
forbade  a purpose  otherwise  strongly  in  favour  of  the  argu- 
ment, that  some  brute  animals  are  endued  with  Reason; 
and  the  team  had  capitulated  and  returned  to  their  duty. 

With  drooping  heads  and  tremulous  tails,  they  mashed 
their  way  through  the  thick  mud,  floundering  and  stum- 
bling between  whiles,  as  if  they  were  falling  to  pieces  at 
the  larger  joints.  As  often  as  the  driver  rested  them  and 
brought  them  to  a stand,  with  a wary  “ Wo-ho ! so-ho- 
then ! ” the  near  leader  violently  shook  his  head  and  every- 1 
thing  upon  it — like  an  unusually  emphatic  horse,  denying 
that-  the  coach  could  be  got  up  the  hill.  Wheuever  the 
leader  made  this  rattle,  the  passenger  started,  as  a ner- 
vous passenger  might,  and  was  disturbed  in  mind. 

There  was  a steaming  mist  in  all  the  hollows,  and  it  had 
roained  in  its  forlornness  up  the  hill,  like  an  evil  spirit, 
seeking  rest  and  finding  none.  A clammy  and  intensely 
cold  mist,  it  made  its  slow  way  through  the  air  in  ripples 
that  visibly  followed  and  overspread  one  another,  as  the 
waves  of  an  unwholesome  sea  might  do.  It  was  dense 
enough  to  shut  out  everything  from  the  light  of  the  coach- 
lamps  but  these  its  own  workings,  and  a few  yards  of  road; 
and  the  reek  of  the  labouring  horses  steamed  into  it,  as  if 
they  had  made  it  all. 

Two  other  passengers,  besides  the  one,  wei^  plodding  up  j 


J 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


5 


the  hill  by  the  side  of  the  mail.  All  three  were  wrapp(‘d 
to  the  cheek-bones  and  over  the  ears,  and  wore  jack-boots. 
Not  one  of  the  three  could  have  said,  from  anything  he 
saw,  what  either  of  the  other  two  was  like;  and  each  was 
liidden  under  almost  as  many  wrappers  from  the  eyes  of 
tlie  mind,  as  from  the  eyes  of  the  body,  of  his  two  com- 
panions. Li  those  days,  travellers  were  very  shy  of  being 
conticlentiaron  a short  notice,  for  anybody  on  the  road 
miglit  be  a robber  or  in  league  with  robbers.  As  to  thp 
latter,  when  every  posting-house  and  ale-house  could  pro- 
duce somebody  in  ‘‘the  Captain's’’  pay,  ranging  from  the 
landlord  to  the  lowest  stable  nondescript,  it  was  the  likeli- 
est thing  upon  the  cards.  So  the  guard  of  the  Dover  mail 
thought  to  himself,  that  Friday  night  in  November,  one 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  seventy-five,  lumbering  up 
Shooter’s  Hill,  as  he  stood  on  his  own  particular  perch  be- 
hind the  mail,  beating  his  feet,  and  keeping  an  eye  and  a 
hand  on  the  arm -chest  before  him,  where  a loaded  blunder- 
buss lay  at  the  top  of  six  or  eight  loaded  horse-pistols,  de- 
posited on  a substratum  of  cutlass. 

The  Dover  mail  was  in  its  usual  genial  position  that  the 
guard  suspected  the  passengers,  the  passengers  suspected 
one  another  and  the  guard,  they  all  suspected  everybody 
else,  and  the  coachinan  was  sure  of  nothing  but  the  horses; 
as  to  which  cattle  he  could  with  a clear  conscience  have 
taken  his  oath  on  the  Two  Testaments  that  they  were  not 
fit  for  the  journey. 

Wo-ho ! ” said  the  coachman.  “ So,  then ! One  more 
pull  and  you’re  at  the  top  and  be  damned  to  you,  for  I 
have  had  trouble  enough  to  get  you  to  it ! — Joe ! ” 

“ Halloa ! ” the  guard  replied. 

“ What  o’clock  do  you  make  it,  Joe?  ” 

‘^Ten  minutes,  good,  past  eleven.” 

“ My  blood ! ” ejaculated  the  vexed  coachman,  “ and  not 
atop  of  Shooter’s  yet!  Tst!  Yah!  Get  on  with  you!  ” 
The  emphatic  horse,  cut  short  by  the  whip  in  a most  de- 
cided negative,  made  a decided  scramble  for  it,  and  the 
three  other  horses  followed  suit.  Once  more,  the  Dover 
mail  struggled  on,  with  the  jack- boots  of  its  passengers 
sqii^shj ng  along  by  its  side.  They  had  stopped  when  the 
'opped,  and  they  kept  close  company  with  it.  If 
^he  three  had  had  the  hardihood  to  propose  to 
'k  on  a little  ahead  into  the  mist  and  dark- 


" A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 

ness,  he  would  have  put  himself  in  a fair  way  of  gettinc 
shot  instantly  as  a highwayman. 

The  last  burst  carried  the  mail  to  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
Ihe  horses  stopped  to  breathe  again,  and  the  guard  got 
down  to  skid  the  wheel  for  the  descent,  and  open  the 
coach-door  to  let  the  passengers  in. 

“ Tst ! Joe ! ” cried  the  coachman  in  a warning  voice 
looking  down  from  his  box.  ’ 

“ What  do  you  say,  Tom?  ” 

They  both  listened. 

“I  say  a horse  at  a canter  coming  up,  Joe.” 

I say  a horse  at  a gallop,  Tom,”  returned  the  guard, 
leaving  his  hold  of  the  door,  and  mounting  nimbly  to  his 
place.  “ Gentlemen ! In  the  king’s  name,  all  of  you ! ” 
With  this  hurried  adjuration,  he  cocked  his  blunderbuss, 
and  stood  on  the  offensive. 

The  passenger  booked  by  this  history,  was  on  the  coach- 
step,  getting  in;  the  two  other  passengers  were  close  be- 
hind him,  and  about  to  follow.  He  remained  on  the  step, 
half  in  the  coach  and  half  out  of;  they  remained  in  the 
road  below  him.  They  all  looked  from  the  coachman  to 
the  guard,  and  from  the  guard  to  the  coachman,  and  lis- 
tened. The  coachman  looked  back  and  the  guard  looked 
back,  and  even  the  emphatic  leader  pricked  up  his  ears  and 
looked  back,  without  contradicting. 

The  stillness  consequent  on  the  cessation  of  the  rumbling 
and  labouring  of  the  coach,  added  to  the  stillness  of  the 
night,  made  it  very  quiet  indeed.  The  panting  of  the 
horses  communicated  a tremulous  motion  to  the  coach,  as 
if  it  were  in  a state  of  agitation.  The  hearts  of  the  pas- 
sengers beat  loud  enough  perhaps  to  be  heard;  but  at  any 
rate,  the  quiet  pause  was  audibly  expressive  of  people  out 
of  breath,  and  holding  the  breath,  and  having  the  pulses 
quickened  by  expectation. 

The  sound  of  a horse  at  a gallop  came  fast  and  furiously 
up  the  hill. 

So- ho ! the  guard  sang  out,  as  loud  as  he  could  roar. 
Yo  there ! Stand ! I shall  fire ! ” 

The  pace  was  suddenly  checked,  and,  with  much  splash- 
ing and  floundering,  a man’s  voice  called  from  the  mist, 
‘^Is  that  the  Dover  mail?  ” 

Never  you  mind  what  it  is!”  the  gua-' 

What  are  you?  ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


7 


“ Is  that  the  Dover  mail?  ” 

‘‘  Why  do  you  want  to  know?  ” 

‘‘I  want  a passenger,  if  it  is.” 

What  passenger?  ” 

‘‘Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry.” 

Our  booked  passenger  showed  in  a moment  that  it  was 
his  name.  The  guard,  the  coachman,  and  the  two  other 
passengers  eyed  him  distrustfully. 

“Keep  where  you  are,”  the  guard  called  to  the  voice  in 
the  mist,  “ because,  if  I should  make  a mistake,  it  could 
never  be  set  right  in  your  lifetime.  Gentleman  of  the  name 
of  Lorry  answer  straight.” 

“What  is  the  matter?”  asked  the  passenger,  then,  with 
mildly  quavering  speech.  “ Who  wants  me?  Is  it  Jerry?  ” 

(“I  don’t  like  Jerry’s  voice,  if  it  is  Jerry,”  growled 
the  guard  to  himself.  “He’s  hoarser  than  suits  me,  is 
Jerry.”) 

“Yes,  Mr.  Lorry.” 

“ What  is  the  matter?  ” 

“A  despatch  sent  after  you  from  over  yonder.  T.  and 
Co.” 

“I  know  this  messenger,  guard,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  getting 
down  into  the  road — assisted  from  behind  more  swiftly 
than  politely  by  the  other  two  passengers,  who  immediately 
scrambled  into  the  coach,  shut  the  door,  and  pulled  up 
the  window.  “He  may  come  close;  there’s  nothing 
wrong.” 

“I  hope  there  ain’t,  but  I can’t  make  so  ’Nation  sure  of 
that,”  said  the  guard,  in  gruff  soliloquy.  “Hallo  you!  ” 

“Well!  And  hallo  you!”  said  Jerry,  more  hoarsely 
than  before. 

“Come  on  at  a footpace!  d’ye  mind  me?  And  if  you’ve 
got  holsters  to  that  saddle  o’  yourn,  don’t  let  me  see  your 
hand  go  nigh’  em.  For  I’m  a devil  at  a quick  mistake, 
and  when  I make  one  it  takes  the  form  of  Lead.  So  now 
let’s  look  at  you.” 

The  figures  of  a horse  and  rider  came  slowly  through  the 
eddying  mist,  and  came  to  the  side  of  the  mail,  where  the 
passenger  stood.  The  rider  stooped,  and,  casting  up  his 
eyes  at  the  guard,  handed  the  passenger  a small  folded 
paper.  The  rider’s  horse  was  blown,  and  both  horse  and 
rider  were  covered  with  mud,  from  the  hoofs  of  the  horse 
to  the  hat  of  the  man. 


8 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Guard ! ” said  the  passenger,  in  a tone  of  quiet  business 
confidence. 

The  watchful  guard,  with  his  right  hand  at  the  stock  of 
his  raised  blunderbuss,  his  left  at  the  barrel,  and  his  eye 
on  the  horseman,  answered,  curtly  ‘^Sir.’^ 

There  is  nothing  to  apprehend.  I belong  to  Tellson’s 
Bank.  You  must  know  Tellson’s  Bank  in  London.  I am 
going  to  Paris  on  business.  A crown  to  drink.  I may 
read  this?” 

If  so  be  as  you’re  quick,  sir.” 

He  opened  it  in  the  light  of  the  coach-lamp  on  that  side, 
and  read — first  to  himself  and  then  aloud : ^ Wait  at 

Hover  for  Mam’selle.’  It’s  not  long,  you  see,  guard. 
Jerry,  say  that  my  answer  was,  recalled  to  life.” 

Jerry  started  in  his  saddle.  “That’s  a Blazing  strange 
answer,  too,”  said  he,  at  his  hoarsest. 

“ Take  that  message  back,  and  they  will  know  that  I re- 
ceived this,  as  well  as  if  I wrote.  Make  the  best  of  your 
way.  Good  night.” 

With  those  words  the  passenger  opened  the  coach-door 
and  got  in;  not  at  all  assisted  by  his  fellow-passengers, 
who  had  expeditiously  secreted  their  watches  and  purses 
in  their  boots,  and  were  now  making  a general  pretence 
of  being  asleep.  With  no  more  definite  purpose  than 
to  escape  the  hazard  of  originating  any  other  kind  of 
action. 

The  coach  lumbered  on  again,  with  heavier  wreaths  of 
mist  closing  round  it  as  it  began  the  descent.  The  guard 
soon  replaced  his  blunderbuss  in  his  arm-chest,  and,  having 
looked  to  the  rest  of  its  contents,  and  having  looked  to  the 
supplementary  pistols  that  he  wore  in  his  belt,  looked  to  a 
smaller  chest  beneath  his  seat,  in  which  there  were  a few 
smith’s  tools,  a couple  of  torches,  and  a tinder-box.  For 
he  was  furnished  with  that  completeness  that  if  the  coach- 
lamps  had  been  blown  and  stormed  out,  which  did  occa- 
sionally happen,  he  had  only  to  shut  himself  up  inside, 
keep  the  flint  and  steel  sparks  well  off  the  straw,  and  get  a 
light  with  tolerable  safety  and  ease  (if  he  were  lucky)  in 
five  minutes. 

“ Tom ! ” softly  over  the  coach  roof. 

“Hallo,  Joe.” 

“ Did  you  hear  the  message?  ” 

“I  did,  Joe.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


9 


“ What  did  you  make  of  it,  Tom?  ” 

“Nothing  at  all,  Joe.”  j «#^,t 

“That’s  a coincidence,  too,”  the  guard  mused,  for 

made  the  same  of  it  myself.” 

Jerry,  left  alone  in  the  mist  and  darkness,  dismounted 
meanwhile,  not  only  to  ease  his  spent  horse,  but  to  wipe 
the  mud  from  his  face,  and  shake  the  wet  out  of  his  hat- 
brim,  which  might  be  capable  of  holding  about  half  a gal- 
lon. After  standing  with  the  bridle  oyer  his  heavily- 
splashed  arm,  until  the  wheels  of  the  mail  were  no  longer 
within  hearing  and  the  night  was  quite  still  again,  le 
turned  to  walk  down  the  hill.  “ After  that  there  gallop 
from  Temple  Bar,  old  lady,  I won’t  trust  your  fore-legs  till 
I get  you  on  the  level,”  said  this  hoarse  messenger,  glanc- 
ing at  his  mare.  “‘Recalled  to  life.’  That’s  a Blazing 
strange  message.  Much  of  that  wouldn’t  do  for  you,  Jeriy . 
I say,  Jerry!  You’d  be  in  a Blazing  bad  way,  if  recalling 
to  life  was  to  come  into  fashion,  Jerry!  ” 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  NIGHT  SHADOWS. 

A woNDEKFUL  fact  to  reflect  upon,  that  every  human 
c-eature  is  constituted  to  be  that  profound  secret  and  mys- 
tery to  every  other.  A solemn  consideration,  when  i enter 
a <^reat  city  by  night,  that  every  one  of  those  darkly  clus- 
tered houses  encloses  its  own  secret;  that  every  room  m 
every  one  of  them  encloses  its  own  secret;  that  every  beat- 
inff  heart  in  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  breasts  there,  is, 

‘ in  some  of  its  imaginings,  a secret  to  the  heart  nearest  it . 
\ Something  of  the  awfulness,  even  of  Death  itself,  is  I’^ier- 
able  to  this.  No  more  can  I turn  the  leaves  of  this  dear 
book  that  I loved,  and  vainl}^  hope  in  time  to  read  it  all. 
No  more  can  I look  into  the  depths  of  this  unfathomable 
1 water,  wherein,  as  momentary  lights  glanced  into  it,  1 have 
^ had  glimpses  of  buried  treasure  and  other  things  sub- 
merged.  It  was  appointed  that  the  book  should  shut  with 
^ spring,  for  ever  and  for  ever,  when  I had  read  but  a 
^ I age.  It  was  appointed  that  the  water  should  be  locked  in 


10 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIE8. 


an  eternal  frost,  when  the  light  was  playing  on  its  surface, 
and  T stood  in  ignorance  on  the  shore.  My  friend  is  dead, 
my  neighbour  is  dead,  my  love,  the  darling  of  my  soul,  is 
dead;  it  is  the  inexorable  consolidation  and  perpetuation  of 
the  secret  that  was  always  in  that  individuality,  and  which 
I shall  carry  in  mine  to  my  life’s  end.  In  any  of  the 
burial-places  of  this  city  through  which  I pass,  is  there  a 
sleeper  more  inscrutable  than  its  busy  inhabitants  are,  in 
their  innermost  personality,  to  me,  or  than  i am  to  them? 

As  to  this,  his  natural  and  not  to  be  alienated  inherit- 
ance, the  messenger  on  horseback  had  exactly  the  same 
possessions  as  the  King,  the  first  Minister  of  State,  or  the 
richest  merchant  in  London.  So  with  the  three  passen- 
gers shut  up  in  the  narrow  compass  of  onTlSSWing  old 
nmir  coa^  they  were  mysj^^^  ano^^  as^^ 

plete^ as  if^ach 'hadT  jeen  in  his  own  coacTi  and  six,  or  his 
own  coach  and  sixty,  withlhe  hfMdth  oT  count^^ 
him  and“~fflWnexfr~  — - 

The  me^nger  rode  back  at  an  easy  trot,  stopping  pretty 
often  at  ale-houses  by  the  way  to  drink,  but  evincing  a 
tendency  to  keep  his  own  counsel,  and  to  keep  his  hat 
cocked  over  his  eyes.  He  had  eyes  that  assorted  very  well 
with  that  decoration,  being  of  a surface  black,  with  no 
depth  in  the  colour  or  form,  and  much  too  near  together — 
as  if  they  were  afraid  of  being  found  out  in  something, 
singly,  if  they  kept  too  far  apart.  They  had  a sinister  ex- 
pression, under  an  old  cocked-hat  like  a three-cornered 
spittoon,  and  over  a great  muffler  for  the  chin  and  throat, 
which  descended  nearly  to  the  wearer’s  knees.  When  ht 
stopped  for  drink,  he  moved  this  muffler  with  his  left 
hand,  only  while  he  poured  his  liquor  in  with  his  righ:; 
as  soon  as  that  was  done,  he  muffled  again. 

^^Ko,  Jerry,  no!”  said  the  messenger,  harping  on  aie 
theme  as  he  rode.  “ It  wouldn’t  do  for  you,  Jerry.  Jer-y, 
you  honest  tradesman,  it  wouldn’t  suit  your  line  of  kisi- 
ness ! Eecalled — ! Bust  me  if  I don’t  think  he'd  been  a 
drinking ! ” 

His  message  perplexed  his  mind  to  that  degree  that  he 
was  fain,  several  times,  to  take  ofP  his  hat  to  scratch  his 
head.  Except  on  the  crown,  which  was  raggedly  bald,  he 
had  stiff,  black  hair,  standing  jaggedly  all  over  it,  and 
growing  down  hill  almost  to  his  broad,  blunt  nose.  It  was 
so  like  Smith’s  work,  so  much  more  like  the  top  of  a 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


11 


strongly  spiked  wall  than  a head  of  hair,  that  the  best  of 
players  at  leap-frog  might  have  declined  him,  as  the  most 
dangerous  man  in  the  world  to  go  over. 

While  ^ trottc^l-back  with  the  message  he  was,  to  de- 
liver to  fbft  nigbt  watchman  in  his  box  at  the  door  of  Tell- 
pm’s  Bank,  by  KmpISTBai^  was  to  deliver  it  to  greater 
^authorities  within,  the  shadows  of  the  night  took  such 
shapes  to  him  as  arose  out  of  the  message,  and  took  such 
i shapes  to  the  mare  as  arose  out  of  her  private  topics  of  un- 
easiness. They  seemed  to  be  numerous,  for  she  shied  at 
levery  shadow  on  the  road. 

What  time,  the  mail-coach  lumbered,  jolted,  rattled,  and 
bumped  upon  its  tedious  way,  with  its  three  fellow-inscru- 
tables  inside.  To  whom,  likewise,  the  shadows  of  the 
[night  revealed  themselves,  in  the  forms  their  dozing  eyes 
and  wandering  thoughts  suggested. 

Tellson’s  Bank  had  a run  upon  it  in  the  mail.  As  the 
bank  passenger — with  an  arm  drawn  through  the  leathern 
strap,  which  did  what  lay  in  it  to  keep  him  from  pounding 
against  the  next  passenger,  and  driving  him  into  his  corner, 
whenever  the  coach  got  a special  jolt — nodded  in  his  place, 
with  half-shut  eyes,  the  little  coach- windows,  and  the 
coach-lamp  dimly  gleaming  through  them,  and  the  bulky 
bundle  of  opposite  passenger,  became  the  bank,  and  did  a 
great  stroke  of  , business.  The  rattle  of  the  harness  was 
the  chink  of  money,  and  more  drafts  were  honoured  in  live 
minutes  than  even  Tellson’s,  with  all  its  foreign  and  home 
connection,  ever  paid  in  thrice  the  time.  Then  the  strong- 
rooms underground,  at  TellsoiLs,  with  such  of  their  valu- 
able stores  and  secrets  as  were  known  to  the  passenger  (and 
it  was  not  a little  that  he  knew  about  them),  opened  be- 
fore him,  and  he  went  in  among  them  with  the  great  keys 
and  the  feebly-burning  candle,  and  found  them  safe,  and 
strong,  and  sound,  and  still,  just  as  he  had  last  seen  them. 

But,  though  the  bank  was  almost  always  with  him,  and 
though  the  coach  (in  a confused  way,  like  the  presence  of 
pain  under  an  opiate)  was  always  with  him,  there  was  an- 
other current  of  impression  that  never  ceased  to  run,  all 
through  the  night.  He  was  on  his  way  to  dig  some  one 
I out  of  a grave. 

Now,  which  of  the  multitude  of  faces  that  showed  them- 
selves before  him  was  the  true  face  of  the  buried  person, 
the  shadows  of  the  night  did  not  indicate;  but  they  were 


12 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


all  the  faces  of  a man  of  five-and-forty  by  years,  and  they 
differed  principally  in  the  passions  they  expressed,  and  in 
the  ghastliness  of  their  worn  and  wasted  state.  Pride, 
contempt,  defiance,  stubbornness,  submission,  lamentation, 
succeeded  one  another;  so  did  varieties  of  sunken  cheek, 
cadaverous  colour,  emaciated  hands  and  figures.  But  thT 
face  was  in  the  main  one  face,  and  every  head  was  prema- 
turely white.  A hundred  times  the  dozing  passenger  in- 
quired of  this  spectre : 

Buried  how  long?  ’’ 

The  answer  was  always  the  same:  ‘^Almost  eighteen 
years.’’ 

You  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  being  dug  out?  ” 

Long  ago.” 

You  know  that  you  are  recalled  to  life?  ” 

They  tell  me  so.” 

“ I hope  you  care  to  live?  ” 

I can’t  say.” 

Shall  I show  her  to  you?  Will  you  come  and  see  her?  ” 
The  answers  to  this  question  were  various  and  contra- 
dictory. Sometimes  the  broken  reply  was,  “Wait!  It 
would  kill  me  if  I saw  her  too  soon.”  Sometimes,  it  was 
given  in  a tender  rain  of  tears,  and  then  it  was,  “ Take  me 
to  her.”  Sometimes  it  was  staring  and  bewildered,  and  : 
then  it  was,  “I  don’t  know  her.  I don’t  understand.”  ^ 
After  such  imaginary  discourse,  the  passenger  in  his  i 
fancy  would  dig,  and  dig,  dig — now  with  a spade,  now 
with  a great  key,  now  with  his  hands — to  dig  this  wretched 
creature  out.  Got  out  at  last,  with  earth  hanging  about  his 
face  and  hair,  he  would  suddenly  fall  away  to  dust.  The 
passenger  would  then  start  to  himself,  and  lower  the  win- 
dow, to  get  the  reality  of  mist  and  rain  on  his  cheek. 

Yet  even  when  his  eyes  were  opened  on  the  mist  and 
rain,  on  the  moving  patch  of  light  from  the  lamps,  and  the 
hedge  at  the  roadside  retreating  by  jerks,  the  night  shadows 
outside  the  coach  would  fall  into  the  train  of  the  night 
shadows  within.  The  real  Banking-house  by  Temple  Bar, 
the  real  business  of  the  past  day,  the  real  strong  rooms, 
the  real  express  sent  after  him,  and  the  real  message  re- 
turned, would  all  be  there.  Out  of  the  midst  of  them,  the 
ghostly  face  would  rise,  and  he  would  accost  it  again. 

“ Buried  how  long?  ” 

“Almost  eighteen  years.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


13 


hope  you  care  to  live? 

‘‘I  can’t  say.” 

Dig— dig— dig — until  an  impatient  movement  from  one 
of  the  two  passengers  would  admonish  him  to  pull  up  the 
window,  draw  his  arm  securely  through  the  leathern  strap, 
and  speculate  upon  the  two  slumbering  forms,  until  his 
mind  lost  its  hold  of  them,  and  they  again  slid  away  into 
the  bank  and  the  grave. 

Buried  how  long?  ” 

‘‘  Almost  eighteen  years.” 

You  had  abandoned  all  hope  of  being  dug  out?  ” 

‘‘Long  ago.” 

The  words  were  still  in  his  hearing  as  just  spoken — dis- 
tinctly in  his  hearing  as  ever  spoken  words  had  been  in  his 
life — when  the  weary  passenger  started  to  the  conscious- 
ness of  daylight,  and  found  that  the  shadows  of  the  night 
were  gone. 

He  lowered  the  window,  and  looked  out  at  the  rising 
gun.  There  was  a ridge  of  ploughed  land,  with  a plough 
upon  it  where  it  had  been  left  last  night  when  the  horses 
were  unyoked;  beyond,  a quiet  coppice-wood,  in  which 
many  leaves  of  burning  red  and  golden  yellow  still  re- 
mained upon  the  trees.  Though  the  earth  was  cold  and 
wet,  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  sun  rose  bright,  placid, 
and  beautiful. 

“ Eighteen  years ! ” said  the  passenger,  looking  at  the 
sun.  “ Gracious  Creator  of  day ! To  be  buried  alive  for 
eighteen  years ! ” 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  PREPARATION. 

When  the  mail  got  successfully  to  Dover,  in  the  course 
of  the  forenoon,  the  head  drawer  at  the  Royal  George 
Hotel  opened  the  coach-door  as  his  custom  was.  He  did 
it  with  some  flourish  of  ceremony,  for  a mail  journey  from 
London  in  winter  was  an  achievement  to  congratulate  an 
adventurous  traveller  upon. 

By  that  time,  there  was  only  one  adventurous  traveller 
left  to  be  congratulated:  for  the  two  others  had  been  set 


14 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


down  at  their  respective  roadside  destinations.  The  mil- 
dewy inside  of  the  coach,  with  its  damp  and  dirty  straw, 
its  disagreeable  smell,  and  its  obscurity,  was  rather  like  a 
larger  dog-kennel.  Mr.  Lorry,  the  passenger,  shaking 
himself  out  of  it  in  chains  of  straw,  a tangle  of  shaggy 
wrapper,  flapping  hat,  and  muddy  legs,  was  rather  like  a 
larger  sort  of  dog. 

“ There  will  be  a packet  to  Calais,  to-morrow,  drawer?  ” 

“ Yes,  sir,  if  the  weather  holds  and  the  wind  sets  toler- 
able fair.  The  tide  will  serve  pretty  nicely  at  about  two  in 
the  afternoon,  sir.  Bed,  sir?  ” 

“ I shall  not  go  to  bed  till  night;  but  I want  a bedroom, 
and  a barber.” 

“ And  then  breakfast,  sir?  Yes,  sir.  That  way,  sir,  if 
you  please.  Show  Concord ! Gentleman’s  valise  and  hot 
water  to  Concord.  Pull  off  gentleman’s  boots  in  Concord. 
(You  will  find  a fine  sea-coal  fire,  sir.)  Fetch  barber  to 
Concord.  Stir  about  there,  now,  for  Concord ! ” 

The  Concord  bed-chamber  being  always  assigned  to  a 
passenger  by  the  mail,  and  passengers  by  the  mail  being 
always  heavily  wrapped  up  from  head  to  foot,  the  room 
had  the  odd  interest  for  the  establishment  of  the  Eoyal 
George,  that  although  but  one  kind  of  man  was  seen  to 
go  into  it,  all  kinds  and  varieties  of  men  came  out  of 
it.  Consequently,  another  drawer,  and  two  porters,  and 
several  maids  and  the  landlady,  were  all  loitering  by 
accident  at  various  points  of  the  road  between  the  Com 
cord  and  the  coffee-room,  when  a gentleman  of  sixty, 
formally  dressed  in  a brown  suit  of  clothes,  pretty  well 
worn,  but  very  well  kept,  with  large  square  cuffs  and  large 
flaps  to  the  pockets,  passed  along  on  his  way  to  his  break- 
fast. 

The  coffee-room  had  no  other  occupant,  that  forenoon, 
than  the  gentleman  in  brown.  His  breakfast- table  was 
drawn  before  the  fire,  and  as  he  sat,  with  its  light  shining 
on  him,  waiting  for  the  meal,  he  sat  so  still,  that  he  might 
have  been  sitting  for  his  portrait. 

Very  orderly  and  methodical  he  looked,  with  a hand  on 
each  knee,  and  a loud  watch  ticking  a sonorous  sermon  un- 
der his  flapped  waistcoat,  as  though  it  pitted  its  gravity 
and  longevity  against  the  levity  and  evanescence  of  the 
brisk  fire.  He  had  a good  leg,  and  was  a little  vain  of  it, 
for  his  bi‘own  stockings  fitted  sleek  and  close,  and  were  of 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


17 


found  in  an  elderly  gentleman  of  a fresh  complexion  who 
has  got  to  the  end  of  a bottle,  when  a rattling  of  wheels 
came  up  the  narrow  street,  and  rumbled  into  the  inn- 
yard. 

He  set  down  his  glass  untouched.  This  is  Mam’selle ! ” 
said  he. 

In  a very  few  minutes  the  waiter  came  in  to  announce 
that  Miss  Manette  had  arrived  from  London,  and  would  be 
happy  to  see  the  gentleman  from  Tellson’s. 

So  soon?  ” 

Miss  Manette  had  taken  some  refreshment  on  the  road, 
and  required  none  then,  and  was  extremely  anxious  to  see 
the  gentleman  from  Tellson^s  immediately,  if  it  suited  his 
pleasure  and  convenience. 

The  gentleman  from  Tellson’s  had  nothing  left  for  it  but 
to  empty  his  glass  with  an  air  of  stolid  desperation,  settle 
his  odd  little  flaxen  wig  at  the  ears,  and  follow  the  waiter 
to  Miss  Manette’ s apartment.  It  was  a large,  dark  room, 
furnished  in  a funereal  manner  with  black  horsehair,  and 
loaded  with  heavy  dark  tables.  These  had  been  oiled  and 
oiled,  until  the  two  tall  candles  on  the  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  were  gloomily  reflected  on  every  leaf;  as  if 
they  were  buried,  in  deep  graves  of  black  mahogany,  and 
no  light  to  speak  of  could  be  expected  from  them  until  they 
were  dug  out. 

The  obscurity  was  so  difficult  to  penetrate  that  Mr. 
Lorry,  picking  his  way  over  the  well-worn  Turkey  carpet, 
supposed  Miss  Manette  to  be,  for  the  moment,  in  some  ad- 
jacent room,  until,  having  got  past  the  two  tall  candles,  he 
saw  standing  to  receive  him  by  the  table  between  them  and 
the  fire,  a young  lady  of  not  more  than  seventeen,  in  a rid- 
ing-cloak, and  still  holding  her  straw  travelling-hat  by  its 
ribbon  in  her  hand.  As  his  eyes  rested  on  a short,  slight, 
pretty  figure,  a quantity  of  golden  hair,  a pair  of  blue  eyes 
that  met  his  own  with  an  inquiring  look,  and  a forehead 
with  a singular  capacity  (remembering  how  young  and 
smooth  it  was),  of  lifting  and  knitting  itself  into  an  ex- 
pression that  was  not  quite  one  of  perplexity,  or  wonder,  or 
alarm,  or  merely  of  a bright  fixed  attention,  though  it  in- 
cluded all  the  four  expressions — as  his  eyes  rested  on  these 
things,  a sudden  viwid  likeness  passed  before  him,  of  a 
child  whom  he  had  held  in  his  arms  on  the  passage  across 
that  very  Channel,  one  cold  time,  when  the  hail  drifted 
2 


18 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


heavily  and  the  sea  ran  high.  The  likeness  passed  away, 
like  a breath  along  the  surface  of  the  gaunt*  pier-glass  be- 
hind her,  on  the  frame  of  which,  a hospital  procession  of 
negro  cupids,  several  headless  and  all  cripples,  were  offer- 
ing black  baskets  of  Dead  Sea  fruit  to  black  divinities  of 
the  feminine  gender — and  he  made  his  formal  bow  to  Miss 
Manette. 

“Pray  take  a seat,  sir,”  In.  a very  clear  and  pleasant 
young  voice;  a little  foreign  in  its  accent,  but  a very  little 
indeed. 

“I  kiss  your  hand,  miss,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  the  man- 
ners of  an  earlier  date,  as  he  made  his  formal  bow  again, 
and  took  his  seat. 

“ I received  a letter  from  the  Bank,  sir,  yesterday,  in- 
forming me  that  some  intelligence — or  discovery ” 

“The  word  is  not  material,  miss;  either  word  will  do.” 

“ — respecting  the  small  property  of  my  poor  father, 

whom  I never  saw — so  long  dead ” 

Mr.  Lorry  moved  in  his  chair,  and  cast  a troubled  look 
towards  the  hospital  procession  of  negro  cupids.  As  if 
they  had  any  help  for  anybody  in  their  absurd  baskets ! 

“ — rendered  it  necessary  that  I should  go  to  Paris,  there 
to  communicate  with  a gentleman  of  the  Bank,  so  good  as 
to  be  despatched  to  Paris  for  the  purpose.” 

“Myself.” 

“As  I was  prepared  to  hear,  sir.” 

She  curtseyed  to  him  (young  ladies  made  curtseys  in 
those  days),  with  a pretty  desire  to  convey  to  him  that  she 
felt  how  much  older  and  wiser  he  was  than  she.  He  made 
her  another  bow. 

“ I replied  to  the  Bank,  sir,  that  as  it  was  considered 
necessary,  by  those  who  know,  and  who  are  so  kind  as  to 
advise  me,  that  I should  go  to  France,  and  that  as  I am  an 
orphan  and  have  no  friend  who  could  go  with  me,  I should 
esteem  it  highly  if  I might  be  permitted  to  place  myself, 
during  the  journey,  under  that  worthy  gentleman’s  protec- 
tion. The  gentleman  had  left  London,  but  I think  a mes- 
senger was  sent  after  him  to  beg  the  favour  of  his  waiting 
for  me  here.  ” 

“I  was  happy,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “to  be  entrusted  with 
the  charge.  I shall  be  more  happy  to  execute  it.” 

“ Sir,  I thank  you  indeed.  I thank  you  very  gratefully. 
It  was  told  me  by  the  Bank  that  the  gentleman  would  ex- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 


19 


plain  to  me  the  details  of  the  business,  and  that  J must 
prepare  myself  to  find  them  of  a surprising  nature.  I have 
done  my  best  to  prepare  myself,  and  I naturally  have  a 
strong  and  eager  interest  to  know  what  they  are.’’ 
“Naturally,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “Yes — I— 

After  a pause,  he  added,  again  settling  the  crisp  flaxen 
wig  at  the  ears, 

“ It  is  very  difficult  to  begin.” 

He  did  not  begin,  but,  in  his  indecision,  met  her  glance. 
The  young  forehead  lifted  itself  into  that  singular  ex- 
pression— but  it  was  pretty  and  characteristic,  besides 
being  singular — and  she  raised  her  hand,  as  if  with  an 
involuntary  action  she  caught  at,  or  stayed  some  passing 
shadow. 

“ Are  you  quite  a stranger  to  me,  sir?  ” 

“ Am  I not?  ” Mr.  Lorry  opened  his  hands,  and  ex- 
tended them  outwards  with  an  argumentative  smile. 

Between  the  eyebrows  and  just  over  the  little  feminine 
nose,  the  line  of  which  was  as  delicate  and  fine  as  it  w^as 
possible  to  be,  the  expression  deepened  itself  as  she  took 
her  seat  thoughtfully  in  the  chair  by  which  she  had  hith- 
erto remained  standing.  He  watched  her  as  she  mused, 
and  the  moment  she  raised  her  eyes  again,  went  on : 

“ In  your  adopted  country,  I presume,  I cannot  do  better 
than  address  you  as  a young  English  lady.  Miss  Manette?  ” 
“If  you  please,  sir.” 

“Miss  Manette,  I am  a man  of  business  I have  a busi- 
ness charge  to  acquit  myself  of.  In  your  reception  of  it, 
don’t  heed  me  any  more  than  if  I was  a speaking  machine 
— truly,  I am  not  much  else.  I will,  with  your  leave,  re- 
late to  you,  miss,  the  story  of  one  of  our  customers.” 

“ Story ! ” 

He  seemed  wilfully  to  mistake  the  word  she  had  re- 
peated, when  he  added,  in  a hurry,  “Yes,  customers;  in 
the  banking  business  we  usually  call  our  connection  our 
customers.  He  was  a French  gentleman;  a scientific  gen- 
tleman; a man  of  great  acquirements — a Doctor.” 

“ Not  of  Beauvais?  ” 

“ Why,  yes,  of  Beauvais.  Like  Monsieur  Manette,  your 
father,  the  gentleman  was  of  Beauvais.  Like  Monsieur 
Manette,  your  father,  the  gentleman  was  of  repute  in  Paris. 
I had  the  honour  of  knowing  him  there.  Our  relations 
were  business  relations,  but  confidential  1 was  at  that 


20 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


time  in  our  French  House,  and  had  been — oh!  twenty 
years. 

At  that  time — I may  ask,  at  what  time,  sir?  ” 

“ I speak,  miss,  of  twenty  years  ago.  He  married— an 
English  lady — and  I was  one  of  the  trustees.  His  affairs, 
like  the  affairs  of  many  other  French  gentlemen  and  French 
families,  were  entirely  in  Tellson’s  hands.  In  a similar 
way  I am,  or  I have  been,  trustee  of  one  kind  or  other  for 
scores  of  our  customers.  These  are  mere  business  rela- 
tions, miss;  there  is  no  friendship  in  them,  no  particular 
interest,  nothing  like  sentiment.  I have  passed  from  one 
to  another,  in  the  course  of  my  business  life,  just  as  I pass 
from  one  of  our  customers  to  another  in  the  course  of  my 
business  day;  in  short,  I have  no  feelings;  I am  a mere 
machine.  To  go  on ” 

But  this  is  my  father’s  story,  sir;  and  I begin  to  think  ” 
— the  curiously  roughened  forehead  was  very  intent  upon 
him — that  when  I was  left  an  orphan  through  my  moth- 
er’s surviving  my  father  only  two  years,  it  was  you  who 
brought  me  to  England.  I am  almost  sure  it  was  you.” 
Mr.  Lorry  took  the  hesitating  little  hand  that  confidingly 
advanced  to  take  his,  and  he  put  it  with  some  ceremony  to 
his  lips.  He  then  conducted  the  young  lady  straightway 
to  her  chair  again,  and,  holding  the  chair-back  with  his 
left  hand,  and  using  his  right  by  turns  to  rub  his  chin,  pull 
his  wig  at  the  ears,  or  point  what  he  said,  stood  looking 
down  into  her  face  while  she  sat  looking  up  into  his. 

‘‘  Miss  Manette,  it  was  I.  And  you  will  see  how  truly  I 
spoke  of  myself  just  now,  in  saying  I had  no  feelings,  and 
that  all  the  relations  I hold  with  my  fellow-creatures  are 
mere  business  relations,  when  you  reflect  that  I have  never 
seen  you  since.  No;  you  have  been  the  ward  of  Tellson’s 
House  since,  and  I have  been  busy  with  the  other  business 
of  Tellson’s  House  since.  Feelings ! I have  no  time  for 
them,  no  chance  of  them.  I pass  my  whole  life,  miss,  in 
turning  an  immense  pecuniary  Mangle.” 

After  this  odd  description  of  his  daily  routine  of  em- 
ployment, Mr.  Lorry  flattened  his  flaxen  wig  upon  his  head 
with  both  hands  (which  was  most  unnecessary,  for  nothing 
could  be  flatter  than  its  shining  surface  was  before),  and 
resumed  his  former  attitude. 

So  far,  miss  (as  you  have  remarked),  this  is  the  story 
of  your  regretted  father.  Now  comes  the  difference.  If 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


21 


your  father  had  not  died  when  he  did Don’t  be  fright- 

ened ! How  you  start ! ” 

She  did,  indeed,  start.  And  she  caught  his  wrist  with 
both  her  hands. 

^^Pray,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  a soothing  tone,  bringing  his 
left  hand  from  the  back  of  the  chair  to  lay  it  on  the  sup- 
plicatory fingers  that  clasped  him  in  so  violent  a tremble : 
pray  control  your  agitation— a matter  of  business.  As  I 
was  saying ” 

Her  look  so  discomposed  him  that  he  stopped,  wandered, 
and  began  anew : 

^‘As  I was  saying;  if  Monsieur  Manette  had  not  died; 
if  he  had  suddenly  and  silently  disappeared;  if  he  had 
been  spirited  away;  if  it  had  not -been  difficult  to  guess  to 
what  dreadful  place,  though  no  art  could  trace  him;  if 
he  had  an  enemy  in  some  compatriot  who  could  exercise  a 
privilege  that  I in  my  own  time  have  known  the  boldest 
people  afraid  to  speak  of  in  a whisper,  across  the  water 
there;  for  instance,  the  privilege  of  filling  up  blank  forms 
for  the  consignment  of  any  one  to  the  oblivion  of  a prison 
for  any  length  of  time;  if  his  wife  had  implored  the  king, 
the  queen,  the  court,  for  any  tidings  of  him,  and  all  quite 
in  vain; — then  the  history  of  your  father  would  have  been 
the  history  of  this  unfortunate  gentleman,  the  Doctor  of 
Beauvais.” 

I entreat  you  to  tell  me  more,  sir.” 

“ I will.  I am  going  to.  You  can  bear  it?  ” 

I can  bear  anything  but  the  uncertainty  you  leave  me 
in  at  this  moment.” 

“ You  speak  collectedly,  and  you — are  collected.  That’s 
good ! ” (Though  his  manner  was  less  satisfied  than  his 
words.)  ^‘A  matter  of  business.  Begard  it  as  a matter 
of  business — business  that  must  be  done.  Now  if  this 
doctor’s  wife,  though  a lady  of  great  courage  and  spirit, 
had  suffered  so  intensely  from  this  cause  before  her  little 

child  was  born ” 

The  little  child  was  a daughter,  sir.  ” 

A daughter.  A — a — matter  of  business — don’t  be  dis- 
tressed. Miss,  if  the  poor  lady  had  suffered  so  intensely 
before  her  little  child  was  born,  that  she  came  to  the  de- 
termination of  sparing  the  poor  child  the  inheritance  of 
any  part  of  the  agony  she  had  known  the  pains  of,  by 
rearing  her  in  the  belief  that  her  father  was  dead No, 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 

don’t  kneel!  In  Heaven’s  name  why  should  you  kneel  to 
me ! ” 

‘‘For  the  truth.  0 dear,  good,  compassionate  sir,  for 
the  truth!” 

“ A — a matter  of  business.  You  confuse  me,  and  how 
can  I transact  business  if  I am  confused?  Let  us  be  clear- 
headed. If  you  could  kindly  mention  now,  for  instance, 
what  nine  times  ninepence  are,  or  how  many  shillings  in 
twenty  guineas,  it  would  be  so  encouraging.  I should  be 
so  much  more  at  my  ease  about  your  state  of  mind.” 

Without  directly  answering  to  this  appeal,  she  sat  so 
still  when  he  had  very  gently  raised  her,  and  the  hands 
that  had  not  ceased  to  clasp  his  wrists  were  so  much  more 
steady  than  they  had  been,  that  she  communicated  some 
reassurance  to  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry. 

“That’s  right,  that’s  right.  Courage!  Business!  You 
have  business  before  you;  useful  business.  Miss  Manette, 
your  mother  took  this  course  with  you.  And  when  she 
died — I believe  broken-hearted — having  never  slackened 
her  unavailing  search  for  your  father,  she  left  you,  at  two 
years  old,  to  grow  to  be  blooming,  beautiful,  and  happy, 
without  the  dark  cloud  upon  you  of  living  in  uncertainty 
whether  your  father  soon  wore  his  heart  out  in  prison,  or 
wasted  there  through  many  lingering  years.” 

As  he  said  the  words  he  looked  down,  with  an  admir- 
ing pity,  on  the  flowing  golden  hair;  as  if  he  pictured  to 
himself  that  it  might  have  been  already  tinged  with 
grey. 

“ You  know  that  your  parents  had  no  great  possession, 
and  that  what  they  had  was  secured  to  your  mother  and  to 
you.  There  has  been  no  new  discovery,  of  money,  or  of 

any  other  property;  but ” 

He  felt  his  wrist  held  closer,  and  he  stopped.  The  ex- 
pression in  the  forehead,  which  had  so  particularly  at- 
tracted his  notice,  and  which  was  now  immovable,  had 
deepened  into  one  of  pain  and  horror. 

“ But  he  has  been — been  found.  He  is  alive.  Greatly 
changed,  it  is  too  probable;  almost  a wreck,  it  is  possible; 
though  we  will  hope  the  best.  Still,  alive.  Your  father 
has  been  taken  to  the  house  of  an  old  servant  in  Paris,  and 
we  are  going  there : I,  to  identify  him  if  I can : you,  to  re- 
store him  to  life,  love,  duty,  rest,  comfort.” 

A shiver  ran  through  her  frame,  and  from  it  through  his. 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


23 


She  said,  in  a low,  distinct,  awe-stricken  voice,  as  if  she 
were  saying  it  in  a dream, 

‘‘  I am  going  to  see  his  Ghost ! It  will  be  his  Ghost — 
not  him ! ” 

Mr.  Lorry  quietly  chafed  the  hands  that  held  his  arm. 
“ There,  there,  there ! See  now,  see  now ! The  best  and 
the  worst  are  known  to  you,  now.  You  are  well  on  your 
way  to  the  poor  wronged  gentleman,  and,  with  a fair  sea 
voyage,  and  a fair  land  journey,  you  will  be  soon  at  his 
dear  side.” 

She  repeated  in  the  same  tone,  sunk  to  a whisper,  I 
have  been  free,  I have  been  happy,  yet  his  Ghost  has  never 
haunted  me ! ” 

^^Only  one  thing  more,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  laying  stress 
upon  it  as  a wholesome  means  of  enforcing  her  attention : 
^^he  has  been  found  under  another  name;  his  own,  long 
forgotten  or  long  concealed.  It  would  be  worse  than  use- 
less now  to  inquire  which;  worse  than  useless  to  seek  to 
know  whether  he  has  been  for  years  overlooked,  or  always 
designedly  held  prisoner.  It  would  be  worse  than  useless 
now  to  make  any  inquiries,  because  it  would  be  dangerous. 
Better  not  to  mention  the  subject,  anywhere  or  in  any  way, 
and  to  remove  him — for  a while  at  all  events — out  of 
France.  Even  I,  safe  as  an  Englishman,  and  even  Tell- 
son’s,  important  as  they  are  to  French  credit,  avoid  all 
naming  of  the  matter.  I carry  about  me,  not  a scrap  of 
writing  openly  referring  to  it.  This  is  a secret  service  al- 
together. My  credentials,  entries,  and  memoranda,  are  all 
comprehended  in  the  one  line,  ^ Kecalled  to  Life;  ’ which 
may  mean  anything.  But  what  is  the  matter!  She  doesn’t 
notice  a word ! Miss  Manette ! ” 

Perfectly  still  and  silent,  and  not  even  fallen  back  in  her 
chair,  she  sat  under  his  hand,  utterly  insensible;  with  her 
eyes  open  and  fixed  upon  him,  and  with  that  last  expres- 
sion looking  as  if  it  were  carved  or  branded  into  her  fore- 
head. So  close  was  her  hold  upon  his  arm,  that  he  feared 
to  detach  himself  lest  he  should  hurt  her;  therefore  he 
called  out  loudly  for  assistance  without  moving. 

A wild-looking  woman,  whom  even  in  his  agitation,  Mr. 
Lorry  observed  to  be  all  of  a red  colour,  and  to  have  red 
feair,  and  to  be  dressed  in  some  extraordinary  tight-fitting 
fashion,  and  to  have  on  her  head  a most  wonderful  bonnet 
like  a Grenadier  wooden  measure,  and  good  measure  too, 


24 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


or  a great  Stilton  cheese,  came  running  into  the  room  in  ad- 
vance of  the  inn  servants,  and  soon  settled  the  question  of 
his  detachment  from  the  poor  young  lady,  by  laying  a 
brawny  hand  upon  his  chest,  and  sending  him  flying  back 
against  the  nearest  wall. 

(“  I really  think  this  must  be  a man!  ” was  Mr.  Lorry’s 
breathless  reflection,  simultaneously  with  his  coming 
against  the  wall.) 

“Why,  look  at  you  all !”  bawled  this  figure,  addressing 
the  inn  servants.  “ Why  don’t  you  go  and  fetch  things,  in- 
stead of  standing  there  staring  at  me?  I am  not  so  much 
to  look  at,  am  I?  Why  don’t  you  go  and  fetch  things? 
I’ll  let  you  know,  if  you  don’t  bring  smelling-salts,  cold 
water,  and  vinegar,  quick,  I will.” 

There  was  an  immediate  dispersal  for  these  restoratives, 
and  she  softly  laid  the  patient  on  a sofa,  and  tended  her 
with  great  skill  and  gentleness ; calling  her  “ my  precious ! ” 
and  “ my  bird  1 ” and  spreading  her  golden  hair  aside  over 
her  shoulders  with  great  pride  and  care. 

“And  you  in  brown!”  she  said,  indignantly  turning  to 
Mr.  Lorry;  “couldn’t  you  tell  her  what  you  had  to  tell 
her,  without  frightening  her  to  death?  Look  at  her,  with 
her  pretty  pale  face  and  her  cold  hands.  Do  you  call  that 
being  a Banker?  ” 

Mr.  Lorry  was  so  exceedingly  disconcerted  by  a ques- 
tion so  hard  to  answer,  that  he  could  only  look  on,  at  a dis- 
tance, with  much  feebler  sympathy  and  humility,  while  the 
strong  woman,  having  banished  the  inn  servants  under  the 
mysterious  penalty  of  “ letting  them  know  ” something  not 
mentioned  if  they  stayed  there,  staring,  recovered  her 
charge  by  a regular  series  of  gradations,  and  coaxed  her  to 
lay  her  drooping  head  upon  her  shoulder. 

“I  hope  she  will  do  well  now,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ Ko  thanks  to  you  in  brown,  if  she  does.  My  darling 
pretty ! ” 

“I  hope,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  after  another  pause  of  feeble 
sympathy  and  humility,  “ that  you  accompany  Miss  Ma- 
nette  to  France?  ” 

“ A likely  thing,  too ! ” replied  the  strong  woman.  “ If  it 
was  ever  intended  that  I should  go  across  salt  water,  do  you 
suppose  Providence  would  have  cast  my  lot  in  an  island?” 

This  being  another  question  hard  to  answer,  Mr.  Jarvis 
Lorry  withdrew  to  consider  it. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


25 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  WINE-SHOP. 

A LARGE  cask  of  wine  had  been  dropped  and  broken,  in 
the  street.  The  accident  had  happened  in  getting  it  out  of 
a cart;  the  cask  had  tumbled  out  with  a run,  the  hoops  had 
burst,  and  it  lay  on  the  stones  just  outside  the  door  of  the 
wine-shop,  shattered  like  a walnut-shell. 

All  the  people  within  reach  had  suspended  their  busi- 
ness, or  their  idleness,  to  run  to  the  spot  and  drink  the 
wine.  The  rough,  irregular  stones  of  the  street,  pointing 
every  way,  and  designed,  one  might  have  thought,  ex- 
pressly to  lame  all  living  creatures  that  approached  them, 
had  dammed  it  into  little  j)ools;  these  were  surrounded, 
each  by  its  own  jostling  group  or  crowd,  according  to  its 
size.  Some  men  kneeled  down,  made  scoops  of  their  two 
hands  joined,  and  sipped,  or  tried  to  help  women,  who  bent 
over  their  shoulders,  to  sip,  before  the  wine  had  all  run  out 
between  their  fingers.  Others,  men  and  women,  dipped  in 
the  puddles  with  little  mugs  of  mutilated  earthenware,  or 
even  with  handkerchiefs  from  women’s  heads,  which  were 
Squeezed  dry  into  infants’  mouths;  others  made  small 
mud-embankments,  to  stem  the  wine  as  it  ran;  others,  di- 
rected by  lookers-on  up  at  high  windows,  darted  here  and 
there,  to  cut  off  little  streams  of  wine  that  started  away  in 
new  directions;  others  devoted  themselves  to  the  sodden 
and  lee-dyed  pieces  of  the  cask,  licking,  and  even  champ- 
ing the  moister  wine-dotted  fragments  with  eager  relish. 
There  was  no  drainage  to  carry  off  the  wine,  and  not  only 
did  it  all  get  taken  up,  but  so  much  mud  got  taken  up 
along  with  it,  that  there  might  have  been  a scavenger  in 
the  street,  if  anybody  acquainted  with  it  could  have  be- 
lieved in  such  a miraculous  presence. 

A shrill  sound  of  laughter  and  of  amused  voices — voices 
of  men,  women,  and  children — resounded  in  the  street 
/hile  this  wine  game  lasted.  There  was  little  roughness 
in  the  sport,  and  much  playfulness.  There  was  a special 
companionship  in  it,  an  observable  inclination  on  the  part 


26 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


of  every  one  to  join  some  other  one,  which  led,  especially 
among  the  luckier  or  lighter-hearted,  to  frolicsome  em- 
braces, drinking  of  healths,  shaking  of  hands,  and  even 
joining  of  hands  and  dancing,  a dozen  together.  When  the 
wine  was  gone,  and  the  places  where  it  had  been  most 
abundant  were  raked  into  a gridiron-pattern  by  fingers, 
these  demonstrations  ceased,  as  suddenly  as  they  had 
broken  out.  The  man  who  had  left  his  saw  sticking  in  the 
firewood  he  was  cutting,  set  it  in  motion  again;  the  woman 
who  had  left  on  a door-step  the  little  pot  of  hot  ashes,  at 
which  she  had  been  trying  to  soften  the  pain  in  her  own 
starved  fingers  and  toes,  or  in  those  of  her  child,  returned 
to  it;  men  with  bare  arms,  matted  locks,  and  cadaverous 
faces,  who  had  emerged  into  the  winter  light  from  cellars, 
moved  away,  to  descend  again;  and  a gloom  gathered  on 
the  scene  that  appeared  more  natural  to  it  than  sunshine. 

The  wine  was  red  wine,  and  had  stained  the  ground  of 
the  narrow  street  in  the  suburb  of  Saint  Antoine,  in  Paris, 
where  it  was  spilled.  It  had  stained  many  hands,  too,  and 
many  faces,  and  many  naked  feet,  and  many  wooden  shoes. 
The  hands  of  the  man  who  sawed  the  wood,  left  red  marks 
on  the  billets;  and  the  forehead  of. the  woman  who  nursed 
her  baby,  was  stained  with  the  stain  of  the  old  rag  she 
wound  about  her  head  again.  Those  who  had  been  greedy 
with  the  staves  of  the  cask,  had  acquired  a tigerish  smear 
about  the  mouth;  and  one  tall  joker  so  besmirched,  his 
head  more  out  of  a long  squalid  bag  of  a nightcap  than  it 
it,  scrawled  upon  a wall  with  his  finger  dipped  in  muddy 
wine-lees — Blood. 

The  time  was  to  come,  when  that  wine  too  would  be  spilled 
on  the  street-stones,  and  when  the  stain  of  it  would  be  red 
upon  many  there. 

And  now  that  the  cloud  settled  on  Saint  Antoine,  which  a 
momentary  gleam  had  driven  from  his  sacred  countenance, 
the  darkness  of  it  was  heavy — cold,  dirt,  sickness,  igno- 
rance, and  want,  were  the  lords  in  waiting  on  the  saintly 
presence — nobles  of  great  power  all  of  them;  but,  most 
especially  the  last.  Samples  of  a people  that  had  under- 
gone a terrible  grinding  and  regrinding  in  the  mill,  and 
certainly  not  in  the  fabulous  mill  which  ground  old  people 
young,  shivered  at  every  corner,  passed  in  and  out  at  every 
doorway,  looked  from  every  window,  fluttered  in  every 
vestige  of  a garment  that  the  wind  shook.  The  mill  which 


HE  SCRAWLED  UPON  A WALL  WITH  HIS  FINGER  DIPPED  IN  MUDDY 
WINE-LEES  — BLOOD. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


27 


had  v/orked  them  down,  was  the  mill  that  grinds  young 
people  old;  the  children  had  ancient  faces  and  grave  voices; 
and  upon  them,  and  upon  the  grown  faces,  and  ploughed 
into  every  furrow  of  age  and  coming  up  afresh,  was  the 
sigh.  Hunger.  It  was  prevalent  everywhere.  Hunger  was 
pushed  out  of  the  tall  houses,  in  the  wretched  clothing  that 
hung  upon  poles  and  lines;  Hunger  was  patched  into  them 
with  straw  and  rag  and  wood  and  paper;  Hunger  was  re- 
peated in  every  fragment  of  the  small  modicum  of  firewood 
that  the  man  sawed  off;  Hunger  stared  down  from  the 
smokeless  chimneys,  and  started  up  from  the  filthy  street 
that  had  no  offal,  among  its  refuse,  of  anything  to  eat. 
Hunger  was  the  inscription  on  the  baker’s  shelves,  written 
in  every  small  loaf  of  his  scanty  stock  of  bad  bread ; at  the 
sausage-shop,  in  every  dead-dog  preparation  that  was 
offered  for  sale.  Hunger  rattled  its  dry  bones  among  the 
roasting  chestnuts  in  the  turned  cylinder;  Hunger  was 
shred  into  atomies  in  every  farthing  porringer  of  husky 
chips  of  potato,  fried  with  some  reluctant  drops  of  oil. 

Its  abiding  place  was  in  all  things  fitted  to  it.  A nar- 
row winding  street,  full  of  offence  and  stench,  with  other 
narrow  winding  streets  diverging,  all  peopled  by  rags  and 
nightcaps,  and  all  smelling  of  rags  and  nightcaps,  and  all 
visible  things  with  a brooding  look  upon  them  that  looked 
ill.  In  the  hunted  air  of  the  people  there  was  yet  some 
wild-beast  thought  of  the  possibility  of  turning  at  bay. 
Depressed  and  slinking  though  they  were,  eyes  of  fire  were 
not  wanting  among  them;  nor  compressed  lips,  white  with 
what  they  suppressed;  nor  foreheads  knitted  into  the  like- 
ness of  the  gallows-rope  they  mused  about  enduring,  or  in- 
flicting. The  trade  signs  (and  they  were  almost  as  many 
as  the  shops)  were,  all,  grim  illustrations  of  Want.  The 
butcher  and  the  porkman  painted  up,  only  the  leanest 
scrags  of  meat;  the  baker,  the  coarsest  of  meagre  loaves. 
The  people  rudely  pictured  as  drinking  in  the  wine-shops, 
croaked  over  their  scanty  measures  of  thin  wine  and  beer, 
and  were  gloweringly  confidential  together.  Nothing  was 
represented  in  a flourishing  condition,  save  tools  and  weap- 
ons; but,  the  cutler’s  knives  and  axes  were  sharp  and 
bright,  the  smith’s  hammers  were  heavy,  and  the  gun- 
maker’s  stock  was  murderous.  The  crippling  stones  of  the 
pavement,  with  their  many  little  reservoirs  of  mud  and 
water,  had  no  footways,  but  broke  off  abruptly  at  the  doors. 


28 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


The  kennel,  to  make  amends,  ran  down  the  middle  of  the 
street — when  it  ran  at  all:  which  was  only  after  heavy 
rains,  and  then  it  ran,  by  many  eccentric  fits,  into  the 
houses.  Across  the  streets,  at  wide  intervals,  one  clumsy 
lamp  was  slung  by  a rope  and  pulley;  at  night,  when  the 
lamplighter  had  let  these  down,  and  lighted,  and  hoisted 
them  again,  a feeble  grove  of  dim  wicks  swung  in  a sickly 
manner  overhead,  as  if  they  were  at  sea.  Indeed  they 
were  at  sea,  and  the  ship  and  crew  were  in  peril  of  tem- 
pest. 

For,  the  time  was  to  come,  when  the  gaunt  scarecrows  of 
that  region  should  have  watched  the  lamplighter,  in  their 
idleness  and  hunger,  so  long,  as  to  conceive  the  idea  of  im- 
proving on  his  method,  and  hauling  up  men  by  those  ropes 
and  pulleys,  to  flare  upon  the  darkness  of  their  condition. 
But,  the  time  was  not  come  yet;  and  every  wind  that  blew 
over  France  shook  the  rags  of  the  scarecrows  in  vain,  for 
the  birds,  fine  of  song  and  feather,  took  no  warning. 

The  wine-shop  was  a corner  shop,  better  than  most  others 
in  its  appearance  and  degree,  and  the  master  of  the  wine- 
shop had  stood  outside  it,  in  a yellow  waistcoat  and  green 
breeches,  looking  on  at  the  struggle  for  the  lost  wine. 
‘^IFsnot  my  affair,’^  said  he,  with  a final  shrug  of  the 
shoulders.  The  people  from  the  market  did  it.  Let  them 
bring  another.” 

There,  his  eyes  happening  to  catch  the  tall  joker  writing 
up  his  joke,  he  called  to  him  across  the  way: 

Say,  then,  my  Gaspard,  what  do  you  do  there?  ” 

The  fellow  pointed  to  his  joke  with  immense  significance, 
as  is  often  the  way  with  his  tribe.  It  missed  its  mark, 
and  completely  failed,  as  is  often  the  way  with  his  tribe 
too. 

What  now?  Are  you  a subject  for  the  mad  hospital?  ” 
said  the  wine-shop  keeper,  crossing  the  road,  and  obliter- 
ating the  jest  with  a handful  of  mud,  picked  up  for  the 
purpose,  and  smeared  over  it.  Why  do  you  write  in  the 
public  streets?  Is  there — tell  me  thou — is  there  no  other 
place  to  write  such  words  in?  ” 

In  his  expostulation  he  dropped  his  cleaner  hand  (per- 
haps accidentally,  perhaps  not)  upon  the  joker’s  heart. 
The  joker  rapped  it  with  his  own,  took  a nimble  spring  up- 
ward, and  came  down  in  a fantastic  dancing  attitude,  with 
one  of  his  stained  shoes  jerked  off  his  foot  into  his  hand, 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


29 


and  held  out.  A joker  of  an  extremely,  not  to  say  wolf- 
ishly  practical  character,  he  looked,  under  those  circum- 
stances. 

Put  it  on,  put  it  on,’^  said  the  other.  Call  wine,  wine; 
and  finish  there.  With  that  advice,  he  wiped  his  soiled 
hand  upon  the  joker’s  dress,  such  as  it  was — quite  deliber- 
ately, as  having  dirtied  the  hand  on  his  account;  and  then 
recrossed  the  road  and  entered  the  wine-shop. 

This  wine-shop  keeper  was  a bull-necked,  martial-look- 
ing man  of  thirty,  and  he  should  have  been  of  a hot  tem- 
perament, for,  although  it  was  a bitter  day,  he  wore  no 
coat,  but  carried  one  slung  over  his  shoulder.  His  shirt- 
sleeves were  rolled- up,  too,  and  his  brown  arms  were  bare 
to  the  elbows.  Neither  did  he  wear  anything  more  on  his 
head  than  his  own  crisply-curling  short  dark  hair.  He 
was  a dark  man  altogether,  with  good  eyes  and  a good  bold 
breadth  between  them.  Good-humoured  looking  on  the 
whole,  but  implacable-looking,  too;  evidently  a man  of  a 
strong  resolution  and  a set  purpose;  a man  not  desirable 
to  be  met,  rushing  down  a narrow  pass  with  a gulf  on 
either  side,  for  nothing  would  turn  the  man. 

Madame  Defarge,  his  wife,  sat  in  the  shop  behind  the 
counter  as  he  came  in.  Madame  Defarge  was  a stout 
woman  of  about  his  own  age,  with  a watchful  eye  that  sel- 
dom seemed  to  look  at  anything,  a large  hand  heavily 
ringed,  a steady  face,  strong  features,  and  great  composure 
of  manner.  There  was  a character  about  Madame  Defarge, 
from  which  one  might  have  predicated  that  she  did  not 
often  make  mistakes  against  herself  in  any  of  the  reckon- 
ings over  which  she  presided.  Madame  Defarge  being  sen- 
sitive to  cold,  was  wrapped  in  fur,  and  had  a quantity  of 
bright  shawl  twined  about  her  head,  though  not  to  the  con- 
cealment of  her  large  ear-rings.  Her  knitting  was  before 
her,  but  she  had  laid  it  down  to  pick  her  teeth  with  a 
toothpick.  Thus  engaged,  with  her  right  elbow  supported 
by  her  left  hand,  Madame  Defarge  said  nothing  when  her 
lord  came  in,  but  coughed  just  one  grain  of  cough.  This, 
in  combination  with  the  lifting  of  her  darkly  defined  eye- 
brows over  her  toothpick  by  the  breadth  of  a line,  sug- 
gested to  her  husband  that  he  would  do  well  to  look  round 
the  shop  among  the  customers,  for  any  new  customer  whc 
had  dropped  in  while  he  stepped  over  the  way. 

The  wine-shop  keeper  accordingly  rolled  his  eyes  about, 


30 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


until  they  rested  upon  an  elderly  gentleman  and  a young 
lady,  who  were  seated  in  a corner.  Other  company  were 
there:  two  playing  cards,  two  playing  dominoes,  three 
standing  by  the  counter  lengthening  out  a short  supply  of 
wine.  As  he  passed  behind  the  counter,  he  took  notice 
that  the  elderly  gentleman  said  in  a look  to  the  young  lady 
‘^This  is  our  man.” 

“ What  the  devil  do  you  do  in  that  galley  there?  ” said 
Monsieur  Defarge  to  himself;  don’t  know  you.” 

But,  he  feigned  not  to  notice  the  two  strangers,  and  fell 
into  discourse  with  the  triumvirate  of  customers  who  were 
drinking  at  the  counter. 

How  goes  it,  Jacques?  ” said  one  of  these  three  to  Mon- 
sieur Defarge.  ^Hs  all  the  spilt  wine  swallowed?  ” 

Every  drop,  Jacques,”  answered  Monsieur  Defarge. 

When  this  interchange  of  Christian  name  was  effected, 
Madame  Defarge,  picking  her  teeth  with  her  toothpick, 
coughed  another  grain  of  cough,  and  raised  her  eyebrows 
by  the  breadth  of  another  line. 

^Ht  is  not  often,”  said  the  second  of  the  three,  address- 
ing Monsieur  Defarge,  that  many  of  these  miserable  beasts 
know  the  taste  of  wine,  or  of  anything  but  black  bread  and 
death.  Is  it  not  so,  Jacques?  ” 

^Ht  is  so,  Jacques,”  Monsieur  Defarge  returned. 

At  this  second  interchange  of  the  Christian  name,  Ma- 
dame Defarge,  still  using  her  toothpick  with  profound  com- 
posure, coughed  another  grain  of  cough,  and  raised  her 
eyebrows  by  the  breadth  of  another  line. 

The  last  of  the  three  now  said  his  say,  as  he  put  down 
his  empty  drinking  vessel  and  smacked  his  lips. 

^^Ah!  So  much  the  worse!  A bitter  taste  it  is  that 
such  poor  cattle  always  have  in  their  mouths,  and  hard 
lives  they  live,  Jacques.  Am  I right,  Jacques?  ” 

You  are  right,  Jacques,”  was  the  response  of  Monsieur 
Defarge. 

This  third  interchange  of  the  Christian  name  was  com- 
pleted at  the  moment  when  Madame  Defarge  put  her  tooth- 
pick by,  kept  her  eyebrows  up,  and  slightly  rustled  in  her 
seat. 

“ Hold  then ! True ! ” muttered  her  husband.  Gentle- 
men— my  wife ! ” 

The  three  customers  pulled  off  their  hats  to  Madame 
Defarge,  with  three  flourishes.  She  acknowledged  their 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


31 


lomage  by  bending  her  head,  and  giving  them  a quick  look. 
Chen  she  glanced  in  a casual  manner  round  the  wine-shop, 
;ook  up  her  knitting  with  great  apparent  calmness  and  re- 
)Ose  of  spirit,  and  became  absorbed  in  it. 

“Gentlemen,’^  said  her  husband,  who  had  kept  his  right 
iye  observantly  upon  her,  ‘^good  day.  The  chamber,  fur- 
lished  bachelor-fashion,  that  you  wished  to  see,  and  were 
nquiring  for  when  I stepped  out,  is  on  the  fifth  floor. 
Che  doorway  of  the  staircase  gives  on  the  little  courtyard 
dose  to  the  left  here,’’  pointing  with  his  hand,  ^^near  to  the 
vindow  of  my  establishment.  But,  now  that  I remember, 
me  of  you  has  already  been  there,  and  can  show  the  way. 
Gentlemen,  adieu ! ” 

They  paid  for  their  wine,  and  left  the  place.  The  eyes 
)f  Monsieur  Defarge  were  studying  his  wife  at  her  knitting 
vhen  the  elderly  gentleman  advanced  from  his  corner,  and 
3egged  the  favour  of  a word. 

‘‘  Willingly,  sir,”  said  Monsieur  Defarge,  and  quietly 
jtepped  with  him  to  the  door. 

Their  conference  was  very  short,  but  very  decided.  Al- 
nost  at  the  first  word.  Monsieur  Defarge  started  and  be- 
came deeply  attentive.  It  had  not  lasted  a minute,  when 
le  nodded  and  went  out.  The  gentleman  then  beckoned  to 
:he  young  lady,  and  they,  too,  went  out.  Madame  Defarge 
mitted  with  nimble  fingers  and  steady  eyebrows,  and  saw 
10  thing. 

Mr,  Jarvis  Lorry  and  Miss  Manette,  emerging  from  the 
vine-shop  thus,  joined  Monsieur  Defarge  in  the  doorway 
30  which  he  had  directed  his  own  company  just  before.  It 
)pened  from  a stinking  little  black  courtyard,  and  was  the 
general  public  entrance  to  a great  pile  of  houses,  inhabited 
ly  a great  number  of  people.  In  the  gloomy  tile-paved 
mtry  to  the  gloomy  tile-paved  staircase.  Monsieur  Defarge 
lent  down  on  one  knee  to  the  child  of  his  old  master,  and 
put  her  hand  to  his  lips.  It  was  a gentle  action,  but  not 
it  all  gently  done;  a very  remarkable  transformation  had 
3ome  over  him  in  a few  seconds.  He  had  no  good-humour 
n his  face,  nor  any  openness  of  aspect  left,  but  had  be- 
3ome  a secret,  angry,  dangerous  man. 

“It  is  very  high;  it  is  a little  difficult.  Better  to  begin 
dowly.”  Thus,  Monsieur  Defarge,  in  a stern  voice,  to 
Mr.  Lorry,  as  they  began  ascending  the  stairs. 

“ Is  he  alone?  ” the  latter  whispered. 


32 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Alone ! God  help  him,  who  should  be  with  him ! said 
the  other,  in  the  same  low  voice. 

‘‘  Is  he  always  alone,  then?  ” 

^‘Yes.^^ 

“Of  his  own  desire?  ’’ 

“ Of  his  own  necessity.  As  he  was,  when  I first  saw  him 
after  they  found  me  and  demanded  to  know  if  I would  take 
him,  and,  at  my  peril  be  discreet— as  he  was  then,  so  he  isi 
now.”  I 

“ He  is  greatly  changed?  ” 

“ Changed ! ” I 

The  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  stopped  to  strike  the  wall 
with  his  hand,  and  mutter  a tremendous  curse.  No  direct 
answer  could  have  been  half  so  forcible.  Mr.  Lorry’s 
spirits  grew  heavier  and  heavier,  as  he  and  his  two  com- 
panions ascended  higher  and  higher. 

Such  a staircase,  with  its  accessories,  in  the  older  and 
more  crowded  parts  of  Paris,  would  be  bad  enough  now; 
but,  at  that  time,  it  waa  vile  indeed  to  unaccustomed  and 
unhardened  senses.  Every  little  habitation  within  the 
great  foul  nest  of  one  high  building — that  is  to  say,  the 
room  or  rooms  within  every  door  that  opened  on  the  gen- 
eral staircase — left  its  own  heap  of  refuse  on  its  own  land- 
ing, besides  flinging  other  refuse  from  its  own  windows. 
The  uncontrollable  and  hopeless  mass  of  decomposition  so 
engendered,  would  have  polluted  the  air,  even  if  poverty 
and  deprivation  had  not  loaded  it  with  their  intangible 
impurities;  the  two  bad  sources  combined  made  it  almost 
insupportable.  Through  such  an  atmosphere,  by  a steep 
dark  shaft  of  dirt  and  poison,  the  way  lay.  Yielding  to 
his  own  disturbance  of  mind,  and  to  his  young  companion’s 
agitation,  which  became  greater  every  instant,  Mr.  Jarvis 
Lorry  twice  stopped  to  rest.  Each  of  these  stoppages  was 
made  at  a doleful  grating,  by  which  any  languishing  good 
airs  that  were  left  uncorrupted,  seemed  to  escape,  and  all 
spoilt  and  sickly  vapours  seemed  to  crawl  in.  Through  the 
rusted  bars,  tastes,  rather  than  glimpses,  were  caught  of 
the  jumbled  neighbourhood;  and  nothing  within  range, 
nearer  or  lower  than  the  summits  of  the  two  great  towers 
of  Notre-Dame,  had  any  promise  on  it  of  healthy  life  or 
wholesome  aspirations. 

At  last,  the  top  of  the  staircase  was  gained,  and  they 
stopped  for  the  third  time.  There  was  yet  an  upper  stair- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


33 


case,  of  a steeper  inclination  and  of  contracted  dimensions, 
to  be  ascended,  before  the  garret  story  was  reached.  The 
keeper  of  the  wine-shop,  always  going  a little  in  advance, 
and  always  going  on  the  side  which  Mr.  Lorry  took,  as 
though  he  dreaded  to  be  asked  any  question  by  the  young 
lady,  turned  himself  about  here,  and,  carefully  feeling  in 
the  pockets  of  the  coat  he  carried  over  his  shoulder,  took 
out  a key. 

‘^The  door  is  locked  then,  my  friend?”  said  Mr.  Lorry, 
surprised. 

“Ay.  Yes,”  was  the  grim  reply  of  Monsieur  Defarge. 

You  think  it  necessary  to  keep  the  unfortunate  gentle- 
man so  retired?  ” 

“I  think  it  necessary  to  turn  the  key.”  Monsieur  De- 
farge whispered  it  closer  in  his  ear,  and  frowned  heavily. 

“Why?” 

“ Why ! Because  he  has  lived  so  long,  locked  up,  that 
he  would  be  frightened — rave — tear  himself  to  pieces — die 
— come  to  I know  not  what  harm — if  this  door  was  left 
open.” 

“ Is  it  possible ! ” exclaimed  Mr.  Lorry. 

“Is  it  possible!”  repeated  Defarge,  bitterly.  “Yes. 
And  a beautiful  world  we  live  in,  when  it  is  possible,  and 
when  many  other  such  things  are  possible,  and  not  only 
possible,  but  done — done,  see  you ! — under  that  sky  there, 
every  day.  Long  live  the  Devil.  Let  us  go  on.” 

This  dialogue  had  been  held  in  so  very  low  a whisper, 
that  not  a word  of  it  had  reached  the  young  lady’s  ears. 
But,  by  this  time  she  trembled  under  such  strong  emotion, 
and  her  face  expressed  such  deep  anxiety,  and,  above  all, 
such  dread  and  terror,  that  Mr.  Lorry  felt  it  incumbent  on 
him  to  speak  a word  or  two  of  reassurance. 

“ Courage,  dear  miss ! Courage ! Business ! The  worst 
will  be  over  in  a moment;  it  is  but  passing  the  room-door, 
and  the  worst  is  over.  Then,  all  the  good  you  bring  to 
him,  all  the  relief,  all  the  happiness  you  bring  to  him,  be- 
gin. Let  our  good  friend  here,  assist  you  on  that  side. 
That’s  well,  friend  Defarge.  Come,  now.  Business,  busi- 
ness ! ” 

They  went  up  slowly  and  softly.  The  staircase  was 
short,  and  they  were  soon  at  the  top.  There,  as  it  had  an 
abrupt  turn  in  it,  they  came  all  at  once  in  sight  of  three 
men,  whose  heads  were  bent  down  close  together  at  the 

3 


34 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


side  of  a door,  and  who  were  intently  looking  into  the  room 
to  which  the  door  belonged,  through  some  chinks  or  holes 
in  the  wall.  On  hearing  footsteps  close  at  hand,  these 
three  turned,  and  rose,  and  showed  themselves  to  be  the 
three  of  one  name  who  had  been  drinking  in  the  wine-shop. 

I forgot  them  in  the  surprise  of  your  visit,  explained 
Monsieur  Defarge.  Leave  us,  good  boys;  we  have  busi- 
ness here.’’ 

The  three  glided  by,  and  went  silently  down. 

There  appearing  to  be  no  other  door  on  that  floor,  and 
the  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  going  straight  to  this  one  when 
they  were  left  alone,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  in  a whisper, 
with  a little  anger : 

Do  you  make  a show  of  Monsieur  Manette?  ” 

I show  him,  in  the  way  you  have  seen,  to  a chosen 
few.” 

Is  that  well?  ” 

I think  it  is  well.” 

Who  are  the  few?  How  do  you  choose  them?  ” 

‘‘  I choose  them  as  real  men,  of  my  name — Jacques  is 
my  name — to  whom  the  sight  is  likely  to  do  good.  Enough; 
you  are  English;  that  is  another  thing.  Stay  there,  if  you 
please,  a little  moment.” 

With  an  admonitory  gesture  to  keep  them  back,  he 
stooped,  and  looked  in  through  the  crevice  in  the  wall. 
Soon  raising  his  head  again,  he  struck  twice  or  thrice  upon 
the  door — evidently  with  no  other  object  than  to  make  a 
noise  there.  With  the  same  intention,  he  drew  the  key 
across  it,  three  or  four  times,  before  he  put  it  clumsily  into 
the  lock,  and  turned  it  as  heavily  as  he  could. 

The  door  slowly  opened  inward  under  his  hand,  and  he 
looked  into  the  room  and  said  something.  A faint  voice 
answered  something.  Little  more  than  a single  syllable 
could  have  been  spoken  on  either  side. 

He  looked  back  over  his  shoulder,  and  beckoned  them  to 
enter.  Mr.  Lorry  got  his  arm  securely  round  the  daugh- 
ter’s waist,  and  held  her;  for  he  felt  that  she  was  sinking. 

‘‘A. — a — a — business,  business!  ” he  urged,  with  a moist- 
ure that  was  not  of  business  shining  on  his  cheek.  Come 
in,  come  in ! ” 

“I  am  afraid  of  it,”  she  answered,  shuddering. 

‘^Of  it?  What?” 

“I  mean  of  him.  Of  my  father.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 


35 


Tveiiclered  in  a manner  desperate,  by  her  state  and  by  the 
beckoning  of  their  conductor,  he  drew  over  his  neck  the 
arm  that  shook  upon  his  shoulder,  lifted  her  a little,  and 
hurried  her  into  the  room.  He  sat  her  down  just  within 
the  door,  and  held  her,  clinging  to  him. 

Defarge  drew  out  the  key,  closed  the  door,  locked  it  on 
the  inside,  took  out  the  key  again,  and  held  it  in  his  hand. 
All  this  he  did,  methodically,  and  with  as  loud  and  harsh 
an  accompaniment  of  noise  as  he  could  make.  Finally,  he 
walked  across  the  room  with  a measured  tread  to  where  the 
window  was.  He  stopped  there,  and  faced  round. 

The  garret,  built  to  be  a depository  for  firewood  and  the 
like,  was  dim  and  dark : for,  the  window  of  dormer  shape, 
was  in  truth  a door  in  the  roof,  with  a little  crane  over  it 
for  the  hoisting  up  of  stores  from  the  street:  unglazed,  and 
closing  up  the  middle  in  two  pieces,  like  any  other  door  of 
French  construction.  To  exclude  the  cold,  one  half  of  this 
door  was  fast  closed,  and  the  other  was  opened  but  a very 
little  way.  Such  a scanty  portion  of  light  was  admitted 
through  these  means,  that  it  was  difficult,  on  first  coming 
in,  to  see  anything;  and  long  habit  alone  could  have  slowly 
formed  in  any  one,  the  ability  to  do  any  work  requiring 
nicety  in  such  obscurity.  Yet,  work  of  that  kind  was 
being  done  in  the  garret;  for,  with  his  back  towards  the 
door,  *and - his  face  towards  the  window  where  the  keeper 
of  the  wine-shop  stood  looking  at  him,  a white-haired  man 
sat  on  a low  bench,  stooping  forward  and  very  busy,  mak- 
ing shoes. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  SHOEMAKER. 

“ Good  day ! said  Monsieur  Defarge,  looking  down  at 
the  white  head  that  bent  low  over  the  shoemaking. 

It  was  raised  for  a moment,  and  a very  faint  voice  re- 
sponded to  the  salutation,  as  if  it  were  at  a distance : 

Good  day ! ” 

, You  are  still  hard  at  work,  I see?  ” 

After  a long  silence,  the  head  was  lifted  for  another  mo- 
ment, and  the  voice  replied,  Yes — I am  working.  This 


36 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


time,  a pair  of  haggard  eyes  had  looked  at  the  questioner, 
before  the  face  had  dropped  again. 

The  faintness  of  the  voice  was  pitiable  and  dreadful. 
It  was  not  the  faintness  of  physical  weakness,  though  con- 
finement and  hard  fare  no  doubt  had  their  part  in  it.  Its 
deplorable  peculiarity  was,  that  it  was  the  faintness  of  sol- 
itude and  disuse.  It  was  like  the  last  feeble  echo  of  a 
sound  made  long  and  long  ago.  So  entirely  had  it  lost  the 
life  and  resonance  of  the  human  voice,  that  it  affected  the 
senses  like  a once  beautiful  colour  faded  away  into  a poor 
weak  stain.  So  sunken  and  suppressed  it  was,  that  it  was 
like  a voice  underground.  So  expressive  it  was,  of  a hope- 
less and  lost  creature,  that  a famished  traveller,  wearied 
out  by  lonely  wandering  in  a wilderness,  would  have  re- 
membered home  and  friends  in  such  a tone  before  lying 
down  to  die. 

Some  minutes  of  silent  work  had  passed : and  the  hag- 
gard eyes  had  looked  up  again : not  with  any  interest  or 
curiosity,  but  with  a dull  mechanical  perception,  before- 
hand, that  the  spot  where  the  only  visitor  they  were  aware 
of  had  stood,  was  not  yet  empty. 

‘^I  want,’^  said  Defarge,  who  had  not  removed  his  gaze 
from  the  shoemaker,  to  let  in  a little  more  light  here. 
You  can  bear  a little  more?  ’’ 

The  shoemaker  stopped  his  work;  looked  with  a vacant 
air  of  listening,  at  the  floor  on  one  side  of  him ; then  sim- 
ilarly, at  the  floor  on  the  other  side  of  him;  then,  upward 
at  the  speaker. 

What  did  you  say?  ’’ 

‘‘  You  can  bear  a little  more  light? 

“I  must  bear  it,  if  you  let  it  in.”  (Laying  the  palest 
shadow  of  a stress  upon  the  second  word.) 

The  opened  half-door  was  opened  a little  further,  and 
secured  at  that  angle  for  the  time.  A broad  ray  of  light 
fell  into  the  garret,  and  showed  the  workman  with  an  un- 
finished shoe  upon  his  lap,  pausing  in  his  labour.  His  few 
common  tools  and  various  scraps  of  leather  were  at  his  feet 
and  on  his  bench.  He  had  a white  beard,  raggedly  cut, 
but  not  very  long,  a hollow  face,  and  exceedingly  bright 
eyes.  The  hollowness  and  thinness  of  his  face  would  have 
caused  them  to  look  large,  under  his  yet  dark  eyebrows  an-d 
his  confused  white  hair,  though  they  had  been  really  other- 
wise, but,  they  were  naturally  large,  and  looked  unnatu- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


^7 


rally  so.  His  yellow  rags  of  sliirt  lay  open  at  the  throat, 
and  showed  his  body  to  be  withered  and  worn.  He,  and 
his  old  canvas  frock,  and  his  loose  stockings,  and  all  his 
poor  tatters  of  clothes,  had,  in  a long  seclusion  from  direct 
light  and  air,  faded  down  to  such  a dull  uniformity  of 
parchment-yellow,  that  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say 
which  was  which. 

He  had  put  up  a hand  between  his  eyes  and  the  light, 
and  the  very  bones  of  it  seemed  transparent.  So  he  sat, 
with  a steadfastly  vacant  gaze,  pausing  in  his  work.  He 
never  looked  at  the  figure  before  him,  without  first  looking 
down  on  this  side  of  himself,  then  on  that,  as  if  he  had 
lost  the  habit  of  associating  place  with  sound;  he  never 
spoke,  without  first  wandering  in  this  manner,  and  forget- 
ting to  speak. 

‘^Are  you  going  to  finish  that  pair  of  shoes  to-day?’’ 
asked  Defarge,  motioning  to  Mr.  Lorry  to  come  forward. 

“ What  did  you  say?  ” 

^‘Do  you  mean  to  finish  that  pair  of  shoes  to-day?  ” 

I can’t  say  that  I mean  to.  I suppose  so.  I don’t 
know.” 

But,  the  question  reminded  him  of  his  work,  and  he  bent 
over  it  again. 

Mr.  Lorry  came  silently  forward,  leaving  the  daughter 
by  the  door.  When  he  had  stood,  for  a minute  or  two,  by 
the  side  of  Defarge,  the  shoemaker  looked  up.  He  showed 
no  surprise  at  seeing  another  figure,  but  the  unsteady  fin- 
gers of  one  of  his  hands  strayed  to  his  lips  as  he  looked  at 
it  (his  lips  and  his  nails  were  of  the  same  pale  lead-colour), 
and  then  the  hand  dropped  to  his  work,  and  he  once  more 
bent  over  the  shoe.  The  look  and  the  action  had  occupied 
but  an  instant. 

“You  have  a visitor,  you  see,”  said  Monsieur  Defarge. 

“ What  did  you  say?  ” 

“Here  is  a visitor.” 

The  shoemaker  looked  up  as  before,  but  without  remov- 
ing a hand  from  his  work. 

“Come!  ” said  Defarge.  “Here  is  monsieur,  who  knows 
a well-made  shoe  when  he  sees  one.  Show  him  that  shoe 
you  are  working  at.  Take  it,  monsieur.” 

Mr.  Lorry  took  it  in  his  hand. 

“Tell  monsieur  what  kind  of  shoe  it  is,  and  the  maker’s 
name.” 


38 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


There  was  a longer  pause  than  usual,  before  the  shoe- 
maker replied : 

I forget  what  it  was  you  asked  me.  What  did  you 
say? 

I said,  couldn’t  you  describe  the  kind  of  shoe,  for  mon- 
sieur’s information?  ” 

‘^It  is  a lady’s  shoe.  It  is  a young  lady’s  walking-shoe. 
It  is  in  the  present  mode.  I never  saw  the  mode.  I have 
had  a pattern  in  my  hand.”  He  glanced  at  the  shoe  with  ; 
some  little  passing  touch  of  pride. 

And  the  maker’s  name?  ” said  Defarge.  i 

Now  that  he  had  no  work  to  hold,  he  laid  the  knuckles  < 
of  the  right  hand  in  the  hollow  of  the  left,  and  then  the 
knuckles  of  the  left  hand  in  the  hollow  of  the  right,  and 
then  passed  a hand  across  his  bearded  chin,  and  so  on  in 
regular  changes,  without  a moment’s  intermission.  The 
task  of  recalling  him  from  the  vagrancy  into  which  he  al- 
ways sank  when  he  had  spoken,  was  like  recalling  some  very 
weak  person  from  a swoon,  or  endeavouring,  in  the  hope  of 
some  disclosure,  to  stay  the  spirit  of  a fast-dying  man. 

Did  you  ask  me  for  my  name?  ” 

Assuredly  I did.” 

^‘One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower.” 

'^s  that  all?” 

^^One  Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower.” 

With  a weary  sound  that  was  not  a sigh,  nor  a groan,  he  i 
bent  to  work  again,  until  the  silence  was  again  broken. 

^^You  are  not  a shoemaker  by  trade?”  said  Mr.  Lorry, 
looking  steadfastly  at  him. 

His  haggard  eyes  turned  to  Defarge  as  if  he  would  have 
transferred  the  question  to  him : but  as  no  help  came  from  I 
that  quarter,  they  turned  back  on  the  questioner  when  they  | 
had  sought  the  ground.  j 

I am  not  a shoemaker  by  trade?  No,  I was  not  a shoe- 1 
maker  by  trade.  I — I learnt  it  here.  I taught  myself.  1 1 

asked  leave  to ” ji 

He  lapsed  away,  even  for  minutes,  ringing  those  meas- 
ured changes  on  his  hands  the  whole  time.  His  eyes  came 
slowly  back,  at  last,  to  the  face  from  which  they  had  wan- 
dered; when  they  rested  on  it,  he  started,  and  resumed, 
in  the  manner  of  a sleeper  that  moment  awake,  reverting 
to  a subject  of  last  night. 

I asked  leave  to  teach  myself,  and  I got  it  with  much 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


39 


difficulty  after  a long  while,  and  I have  made  shoes  ever 
since. 

As  he  held  out  his  hand  for  the  shoe  that  had  been  taken 
from  him,  Mr.  Lorry  said,  still  looking  steadfastly  in  his 
face : 

“Monsieur  Manette,  do  you  remember  nothing  of  me?  ” 

The  shoe  dropped  to  the  ground,  and  he  sat  looking  fix- 
edly at  the  questioner. 

“Monsieur  Manette;’’  Mr.  Lorry  laid  his  hand  upon 
Defarge’s  arm;  “do  you  remember  nothing  of  this  man? 
Look  at  him.  Look  at  me.  Is  there  no  old  banker,  no  old 
business,  no  old  servant,  no  old  time,  rising  in  your  mind. 
Monsieur  Manette?  ” 

As  the  captive  of  many  years  sat  looking  fixedly,  by 
turns,  at  Mr.  Lorry  and  at  Defarge,  some  long  obliterated 
marks  of  an  actively  intent  intelligence  in  the  middle  of 
the  forehead,  gradually  forced  themselves  through  the 
black  mist  that  had  fallen  on  him.  They  were  overclouded 
again,  they  were  fainter,  they  were  gone;  but  they  had 
been  there.  And  so  exactly  was  the  expression  repeated 
on  the  fair  young  face  of  her  who  had  crept  along  the  wall 
to  a point  where  she  could  see  him,  and  where  she  now  stood 
looking  at  him,  with  hands  which  at  first  had  been  only 
raised  in  frightened  compassion,  if  not  even  to  keep  him 
off  and  shut  out  the  sight  of  him,  but  which  were  now  ex- 
tending towards  him,  trembling  with  eagerness  to  lay  the 
spectral  face  upon  her  warm  young  breast,  and  love  it  back 
to  life  and  hope — so  exactly  was  the  expression  repeated 
(though  in  stronger  characters)  on  her  fair  young  face,  that 
it  looked  as  though  it  had  passed  like  a moving  light,  from 
him  to  her. 

Darkness  had  fallen  on  him  in  its  place.  He  looked  at 
the  two,  less  and  less  attentively,  and  his  eyes  in  gloomy 
abstraction  sought  the  ground  and  looked  about  him  in  the 
old  way.  Finally,  with  a deep  long  sigh,  he  took  the  shoe 
up,  and  resumed  his  work. 

“Have  you  recognised  him,  monsieur?”  asked  Defarge 
in  a whisper. 

“ Yes;  for  a moment.  At  first  I thought  it  quite  hope- 
less, but  I have  unquestionably  seen,  for  a single  moment, 
the  face  that  I once  knew  so  well.  Hush!  Let  us  draw 
further  back.  Hush ! ” 

She  had  moved  from  the  wall  of  the  garret,  very  near  to 


40 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


the  bench  on  which  he  sat.  There  was  something  awful  in 
his  unconsciousness  of  the  figure  that  could  have  put  out 
its  hand  and  touched  him  as  he  stooped  over  his  labour. 

Not  a word  was  spoken,  not  a sound  was  made.  She 
stood,  like  a spirit,  beside  him,  and  he  bent  over  his  work. 

It  happened,  at  length,  that  he  had  occasion  to  change 
the  instrument  in  his  hand,  for  his  shoemaker’s  knife.  It 
lay  on  that  side  of  him  which  was  not  the  side  on  which 
she  stood.  He  had  taken  it  up,  and  was  stooping  to  work 
again,  when  his  eyes  caught  the  skirt  of  her  dress.  He 
raised  them,  and  saw  her  face.  The  two  spectators  started 
forward,  but  she  stayed  them  with  a motion  of  her  hand. 
She  had  no  fear  of  his  striking  at  her  with  the  knife, 
though  they  had. 

He  stared  at  her  with  a fearful  look,  and  after  a while 
his  lips  began  to  form  some  words,  though  no  sound  pro- 
ceeded from  them.  By  degrees,  in  the  pauses  of  his  quick 
and  laboured  breathing,  he  was  heard  to  say : 

What  is  this?  ” 

With  the  tears  streaming  down  her  face,  she  put  her  two 
hands  to  her  lips,  and  kissed  them  to  him;  then  clasped 
them  on  her  breast,  as  if  she  laid  his  ruined  head  there. 
You  are  not  the  gaoler’s  daughter?  ” 

She  sighed  ^^No.” 

Who  are  you?  ” 

Not  yet  trusting  the  tones  of  her  voice,  she  sat  down  on 
the  bench  beside  him.  He  recoiled,  but  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  arm.  A strange  thrill  struck  him  when  she  did 
so,  and  visibly  passed  over  his  frame;  he  laid  the  knife 
down  softly,  as  he  sat  staring  at  her. 

Her  golden  hair,  which  she  wore  in  long  curls,  had  been 
hurriedly  pushed  aside,  and  fell  down  over  her  neck.  Ad- 
vancing his  hand  by  little  and  little,  he  took  it  up  and 
looked  at  it.  In  the  midst  of  the  action  he  went  astray, 
and,  with  another  deep  sigh,  fell  to  work  at  his  shoemak- 
ing. 

But  not  for  long.  Eeleasing  his  arm,  she  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  shoulder.  After  looking  doubtfully  at  it,  two  or 
three  times,  as  if  to  be  sure  that  it  was  really  there,  he  laid 
down  his  work,  put  his  hand  to  his  neck,  and  took  off  a 
blackened  string  with  a scrap  of  folded  rag  attached  to  it. 
He  opened  this,  carefully,  on  his  knee,  and  it  contained  a 
very  little  quantity  of  hair : not  more  than  one  or  two  long 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIEB. 


41 


golden  hairs,  which  he ^ had,  in  some  old  day,  wound  off 
upon  his  finger. 

He  took  her  hair  into  his  hand  again,  and  looked  closely 
at  it.  ^‘It  is  the  same.  How  can  it  be!  When  was  it! 
How  was  it ! 

As  the  concentrated  expression  returned  to  his  forehead, 
he  seemed  to  become  conscious  that  it  was  in  hers  too.  He 
turned  her  full  to  the  light,  and  looked  at  her. 

She  had  laid  her  head  upon  my  shoulder,  that  night 
when  I was  summoned  out — she  had  a fear  of  my  going, 
though  I had  none — and  when  I was  brought  to  the  North 
Tower  they  found  these  upon  my  sleeve.  ‘ You  will  leave 
me  them?  They  can  never  help  me  to  escape  in  the  body, 
though  they  may  in  the  spirit.’  Those  were  the  words  I 
said.  I remember  them  very  well.” 

He  formed  this  speech  with  his  lips  many  times  before 
he  could  utter  it.  But  when  he  did  find  spoken  words  for 
it,  they  came  to  him  coherently,  though  slowly. 

‘‘  How  was  this? — Was  it  you  ? ” 

Once  more,  the  two  spectators  started,  as  he  turned  upon 
her  with  a frightful  suddenness.  But  she  sat  perfectly 
still  in  his  grasp,  and  only  said,  in  a low  voice,  I entreat 
you,  good  gentlemen,  do  not  come  near  us,  do  not  speak, 
do  not  move ! ” 

Hark ! ” he  exclaimed.  Whose  voice  was  that?  ” 

His  hands  released  her  as  he  uttered  this  cry,  and  went 
up  to  his  white  hair,  which  they  tore  in  a frenzy.  It  died 
out,  as  everything  but  his  shoemaking  did  die  out  of  him, 
and  he  refolded  his  little  packet  and  tried  to  secure  it  in 
his  breast;  but  he  still  looked  at  her,  and  gloomily  shook 
his  head. 

‘‘No,  no,  no;  you  are  too  young,  too  blooming.  It  can’t 
be.  See  what  the  prisoner  is.  These  are  not  the  hands 
she  knew,  this  is  not  the  face  she  knew,  this  is  not  a voice 
she  ever  heard.  No,  no.  She  was — and  He  was — before 
the  slow  years  of  the  North  Tower — ages  ago.  What  is 
your  name,  my  gentle  angel?  ” 

Hailing  his  softened  tone  and  manner,  his  daughter  fell 
upon  her  knees  before  him,  with  her  appealing  hands  upon 
his  breast. 

“0,  sir,  at  another  time  you  shall  know  my  name,  and 
who  my  mother  was,  and  who  my  father,  and  how  I never 
knew  their  hard,  hard  history.  But  I cannot  tell  you  at 


42 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


this  time,  and  I cannot  tell  you  here.  All  that  I may  tell 
you,  here  and  now,  is,  that  I pray  to  you  to  touch  me  and  i 
to  bless  me.  Kiss  me,  kiss  me!  0 my  dear,  my  dear!  ” i 

His  cold  white  head  mingled  with  her  radiant  hair, 
which  warmed  and  lighted  it  as  though  it  were  the  light  of 
Freedom  shining  on  him. 

If  you  hear  in  my  voice — I don^t  know  that  it  is  so, 
but  I hope  it  is — if  you  hear  in  my  voice  any  resemblance  ; 
to  a voice  that  once  was  sweet  music  in  your  ears,  weep  for  i 
it,  weep  for  it ! If  you  touch,  in  touching  my  hair,  any-  j 
thing  that  recalls  a beloved  head  that  lay  on  your  breast  | 
when  you  were  young  and  free,  weep  for  it,  weep  for  it ! i 
If,  when  I hint  to  you  of  a Home  that  is  before  us,  where 
I will  be  true  to  you  with  all  my  duty  and  with  all  my 
faithful  service,  I bring  back  the  remembrance  of  a Home 
long  desolate,  while  your  poor  heart  pined  away,  weep  for 
it,  weep  for  it ! 

She  held  him  closer  round  the  neck,  and  rocked  him  on 
her  breast  like  a child. 

' “ If,  when  I tell  you,  dearest  dear,  that  your  agony  is 
over,  and  that  I have  come  here  to  take  you  from  it,  and 
that  we  go  to  England  to  be  at  peace  and  at  rest,  I cause  j 
you  to  think  of  your  useful  life  laid  waste,  and  of  our  na-  i 
tive  France  so  wicked  to  you,  weep  for  it,  weep  for  it!  ! 
And  if,  when  I shall  tell  you  of  my  name,  and  of  my  fa-  I 
ther  who  is  living,  and  of  my  mother  who  is  dead,  you  ; 
learn  that  I have  to  kneel  to  my  honoured  father,  and  im-  i 
plore  his  pardon  for  having  never  for  his  sake  striven  all  i 
day  and  lain  awake  and  wept  all  night,  because  the  love  of  i 
my  poor  mother  hid  his  torture  from  me,  weep  for  it,  weep  | 
for  it!  Weep  for  her,  then,  and  for  me!  Good  gentlemen, 
thank  God!  I feel  his  sacred  tears  upon  my  face,  and  his  i 
sobs  strike  against  my  heart.  0,  see ! Thank  God  for  us,  ' 
thank  God ! ’’  ; 

He  had  sunk  in  her  arms,  and  his  face  dropped  on  her  | 
breast : a sight  so  touching,  yet  so  terrible  in  the  tremen-  | 
dous  wrong  and  suffering  which  had  gone  before  it,  that  ' 
the  two  beholders  covered  their  faces.  i 

When  the  quiet  of  the  garret  had  been  long  undisturbed, 
and  his  heaving  breast  and  shaken  form  had  long  yielded 
to  the  calm  that  must  follow  all  storms — emblem  to  hu-  I 
inanity,  of  the  rest  and  silence  into  which  the  storm  called  i 
Life  must  hush  at  last — they  came  forward  to  raise  the  fa  | 


HE  HAD  SUNK  IN  HER  ARMS.  WITH  HIS  FACE  DROPPED  ON  HER  BREAST. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


43 


ther  and  daughter  from  the  ground.  He  had  gradually- 
dropped  to  the  floor,  and  lay  there  in  a lethargy,  worn  out. 
She  had  nestled  down  with  him,  that  his  head  might  lie 
upon  her  arm;  and  her  hair  drooping  over  him  curtained 
him  from  the  light. 

^^If,  without  disturbing  him,’^  she  said,  raising  her  hand 
to  Mr.  Lorry  as  he  stooped  over  them,  after  repeated  blow- 
ings of  his  nose,  ^^all  could  be  arranged  for  our  leaving 
Paris  at  once,  so  that,  from  the  very  door,  he  could  be 
taken  away ” 

“ But,  consider.  Is  he  fit  for  the  journey?  ” asked  Mr. 
Lorry. 

More  fit  for  that,  I think,  than  to  remain  in  this  city, 
so  dreadful  to  him.” 

^‘It  is  true,”  said  Defarge,  who  was  kneeling  to  look  on 
and  hear.  More  than  that;  Monsieur  Manette  is,  for  all 
reasons,  best  out  of  France.  Say,  shall  I hire  a carriage 
and  post-horses?  ” 

That’s  business,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  resuming  on  the 
shortest  notice  his  methodical  manners;  ‘‘and  if  business 
is  to  be  done,  I had  better  do  it.” 

“Then  be  so  kind,”  urged  Miss  Manette,  “as  to  leave  us 
here.  You  see  how  composed  he  has  become,  and  you  can- 
not be  afraid  to  leave  him  with  me  now.  Why  should  you 
be?  If  you  will  lock  the  door  to  secure  us  from  interrup- 
tion, I do  not  doubt  that  you  will  find  him,  when  you  come 
back,  as  quiet  as  you  leave  him.  In  any  case,  I will  take 
care  of  him  until  you  return,  and  then  we  will  remove  him 
straight.  ” 

Both  Mr.  Lorry  and  Defarge  were  rather  disinclined  to 
this  course,  and  in  favour  of  one  of  them  remaining.  But, 
as  there  were  not  only  carriage  and  horses  to  be  seen  to, 
but  travelling  papers;  and  as  time  pressed,  for  the  day  was 
drawing  to  an  end,  it  came  at  last  to  their  hastily  dividing 
the  business  that  was  necessary  to  be  done,  and  hurrying 
away  to  do  it. 

Then,  as  the  darkness  closed  in,  the  daughter  laid  her 
head  down  on  the  hard  ground  close  at  the  father’s  side, 
and  watched  him.  The  darkness  deepened  and  deepened, 
and  they  both  lay  quiet,  until  a light  gleamed  through  the 
chinks  in  the  wall. 

Mr.  Lorry  and  Monsieur  Defarge  had  made  all  ready  for 
the  journey,  and  had  brought  with  them,  besides  travelling 


44 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


cloaks  and  wrappers,  bread  and  meat,  wine,  and  hot  coffee. 
Monsieur  Defarge  put  this  provendei*,  and  the  lamp  he  car- 
ried, on  the  shoemaker’s  bench  (there  was  nothing  else  in 
the  garret  but  a pallet  bed),  and  he  and  Mr.  Lorry  roused 
ihe  captive,  and  assisted  him  to  his  feet. 

No  human  intelligence  could  have  read  the  mysteries  of 
his  mind,  in  the  scared  blank  wonder  of  his  face.  Whether 
he  knew  what  had  happened,  whether  he  recollected  what 
they  had^  said  to  him,  whether  he  knew  that  he  was  free, 
were  questions  which  no  sagacity  could  have  solved.  They 
tried  speaking  to  him;  but,  he  was  so  confused,  and  so 
very  slow  to  answer,  that  they  took  fright  at  his  bewilder- 
ment, and  agreed  for  the  time  to  tamper  with  him  no  more. 
He  had  a wild,  lost  manner  of  occasionally  clasping  his 
head  in  his  hands,  that  had  not  been  seen  in  him  be- 
fore; yet,  he  had  some  pleasure  in  the  mere  sound  of  his 
daughter’s  voice,  and  invariably  turned  to  it  when  she 
spoke. 

In  the  submissive  way  of  one  long  accustomed  to  obey 
under  coercion,  he  ate  and  drank  what  they  gave  him  to  eat 
and  drink,  and  put  on  the  cloak  and  other  wrappings,  that 
they  gave  him  to  wear.  He  readily  responded  to  his 
daughter’s  drawing  her  arm  through  his,  and  took — and 
kept — her  hand  in  both  his  own. 

They  began  to  descend;  Monsieur  Defarge  going  first 
with  the  lamp,  Mr.  Lorry  closing  the  little  procession. 
They  had  not  traversed  many  steps  of  the  long  main  stair- 
case when  he  stopped,  and  stared  at  the  roof  and  round  at 
the  walls. 

You  remember  the  place,  my  father?  You  remember 
coming  up  here?  ” 

What  did  you  say?  ” 

But,  before  she  could  repeat  the  question,  he  murmured 
an  answer  as  if  she  had  repeated  it. 

"Remember?  No,  I don’t  remember.  It  was  so  very 
long  ago.  ” 

That  he  had  no  recollection  whatever  of  his  having  been 
brought  from  his  prison  to  that  house,  was  apparent  to 
them.  They  heard  him  mutter,  ‘^One  Hundred  and  Five, 
North  Tower;  ” and  when  he  looked  about  him,  it  evidently 
was  for  the  strong  fortress- walls  which  had  long  encom- 
passed him.  On  their  reaching  the  courtyard  he  instinc- 
tively altered  his  tread,  as  being  in  expectation  of  a draw- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


45 


bridge;  and  when  there  was  no  drawbridge,  and  he  saw’ 
the  carriage  waiting  in  the  open  street,  he  dropped  his 
daughter’s  hand  and  clasped  his  head  again. 

No  crowed  was  about  the  door;  no  people  were  discernible 
at  any  of  the  many  windows;  not  even  a chance  passer-by 
was  in  the  street.  An  unnatural  silence  and  desertion 
reigned  there.  Only  one  soul  was  to  be  seen,  and  that  was 
Madame  Defarge — who  leaned  against  the  door-post,  knib 
ting,  and  saw  nothing. 

The  prisoner  had  got  into  a coach,  and  his  daughter  had 
followed  him,  when  Mr.  Lorry’s  feet  were  arrested  on  the 
step  by  his  asking,  miserably,  for  his  shoemaking  tools  and 
the  unfinished  shoes.  Madame  Defarge  immediately  called 
to  her  husband  that  she  would  get  them,  and  w^ent,  knit- 
ting, out  of  the  lamplight,  through  the  courtyard.  She 
quickly  brought  them  down  and  handed  them  in; — and  im- 
mediately afterwards  leaned  against  the  door-post,  knit- 
ting, and  saw  nothing. 

Defarge  got  upon  the  box,  and  gave  the  word  To  the 
Barrier ! ” The  postilion  cracked  his  whip,  and  they  clat- 
tered away  under  the  feeble  over-swinging  lamps. 

Under  the  over-swinging  lamps — swinging  ever  brighter 
in  the  better  streets,  and  ever  dimmer  in  the  worse — and 
by  lighted  shops,  gay  crowds,  illuminated  coffee-houses, 
and  theatre-doors,  to  one  of  the  city  gates.  Soldiers  with 
lanterns,  at  the  guard-house  there.  Your  papers,  travel- 
lers!” See  here  then.  Monsieur  the  Officer,”  said  De- 
farge, getting  down,  and  taking  him  gravely  apart,  these 
are  the  papers  of  monsieur  inside,  with  the  white  head. 

They  were  consigned  to  me,  with  him,  at  the ” He 

dropped  his  voice,  there  was  a flutter  among  the  military 
lanterns,  and  one  of  them  being  handed  into  the  coach  by 
an  arm  in  uniform,  the  eyes  connected  with  the  arm  looked, 
not  an  every  day  or  an  every  night  look,  at  monsieur  with 
the  white  head.  It  is  well.  Forward ! ” from  the  uni- 
form. ‘‘Adieu!”  from  Defarge.  And  so,  under  a short 
grove  of  feebler  and  feebler  over-swinging  lamps,  out  un- 
der the  great  grove  of  stars. 

Beneath  that  arch  of  unmoved  and  eternal  lights;  some, 
so  remote  from  this  little  earth  that  the  learned  tell  us  it 
is  doubtful  whether  their  rays  have  even  yet  discovered  it, 
as  a point  in  space  where  anything  is  suffered  or  done : the 
shadows  of  the  night  were  broad  and  black.  All  through 


46 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


the  cold  and  restless  interval,  until  dawn,  they  once  more 
whispered  in  the  ears  of  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry — sitting  opposite 
the  buried  man  who  had  been  dug  out,  and  wondering  what 
subtle  powers  were  for  ever  lost  to  him,  and  what  were 
capable  of  restoration — the  old  inquiry  : 

I hope  you  care  to  be  recalled  to  life? 

And  the  old  answer : 

“ I can’t  say.” 


THE  END  OF  THE  FIRST  BOOK. 


BOOK  THE 


SECOND.-THE  GOLDEN 
THREAD. 


CHAPTER  L 

FIVE  YEARS  LATER. 

Tellson’s  Bank  by  Temple  Bar  was  an  old-fashioned 
place,  even  in  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
eighty.  It  was  very  small,  very  dark,  very  ugly,  very  in- 
commodious. It  was  an  old-fashioned  place,  moreover,  in 
the  moral  attribute  that  the  partners  in  the  House  were 
proud  of  its  smallness,  proud  of  its  darkness,  proud  of  its 
ugliness,  proud  of  its  incommodiousness.  They  were  even 
boastful  of  its  eminence  in  those  particulars,  and  were  fired 
by  an  express  conviction  that,  if  it  were  less  objectionable, 
it  would  be  less  respectable.  This  was  no  passive  belief, 
but  an  active  weapon  which  they  flashed  at  more  con- 
venient places  of  business.  Tellson’s  (they  said)  wanted 
no  elbow-room,  Tellson’s  wanted  no  light,  Tellson’s  wanted 
no  embellishment.  Noakes  and  Co.’s  might,  or  Snooks 
Brothers’  might;  but  Tellson’s,  thank  Heaven! 

Any  one  of  these  partners  would  have  disinherited  his 
son  on  the  question  of  rebuilding  Tellson’s.  In  this  re- 
spect the  House  was  much  on  a par  with  the  Country; 
which  did  very  often  disinherit  its  sons  for  suggesting  im- 
provements in  laws  and  customs  that  had  long  been  highly 
objectionable,  but  were  only  the  more  respectable. 

Thus  it  had  come  to  pass,  that  Tellson’s  was  the  tri- 
umphant perfection  of  inconvenience.  After  bursting  open 
a door  of  idiotic  obstinacy  with  a weak  rattle  in  its  throat, 
you  fell  into  Tellson’s  down  two  steps,  and  came  to  your 
senses  in  a miserable  little  shop,  with  two  little  counters, 
where  the  oldest  of  men  made  your  cheque  shake  as  if  the 
wind  rustled  it,  while  they  examined  the  signature  by  the 


48 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


dingiest  of  windows,  which  were  always  under  a shower- 
bath  of  mud  from  Fleet-street,  and  which  were  made  the 
dingier  by  their  own  iron  bars  proper,  and  the  heavy  shadow 
of  Temple  Bar.  If  your  business  necessitated  your  seeing 
“the  House,”  you  were  put  into  a species  of  Condemned 
Hold  at  the  back,  where  you  meditated  on  a misspent  life, 
until  the  House  came  with  its  hands  in  its  pockets,  and  you 
could  hardly  blink  at  it  in  the  dismal  twilight.  Your 
money  came  out  of,  or  went  into,  wormy  old  wooden 
drawers,  particles  of  which  flew  up  your  nose  and  down 
your  throat  when  they  were  opened  and  shut.  Your  bank- 
notes had  a musty  odour,  as  if  they  were  fast  decomposing 
into  rags  again.  Your  plate  was  stowed  away  among  the 
neighbouring  cesspools,  and  evil  communications  corrupted 
its  good  polish  in  a day  or  two.  Your  deeds  got  into  ex- 
temporised strong-rooms  made  of  kitchens  and  sculleries, 
and  fretted  all  the  fat  out  of  their  parchments  into  the 
banking-house  air.  Your  lighter  boxes  of  family  papers 
Avent  up- stairs  into  a Barmecide  room,  that  always  had  a 
great  dining-table  in  it  and  never  had  a dinner,  and  where, 
even  in  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty, 
the  first  letters  written  to  you  by  your  old  love,  or  by  your 
little  children,  were  but  newly  released  from  the  horror  of 
being  ogled  through  the  windows,  by  the  heads  exposed  on 
Temple  Bar  with  an  insensate  brutality  and  ferocity  worthy 
of  Abyssinia  or  Ashantee. 

But  indeed,  at  that  time,  putting  to  death  was  a recipe 
much  in  vogue  with  all  trades  and  professions,  and  not 
least  of  all  with  Tellson’s.  Death  is  Nature’s  remedy  for 
all  things,  and  why  not  Legislation’s?  Accordingly,  the 
forger  was  put  to  Death;  the  utterer  of  a bad  note  was  put 
to  Death;  the  unlawful  opener  of  a letter  was  put  to 
Death;  the  purloiner  of  forty  shillings  and  sixpence  was 
put  to  Death;  the  holder  of  a horse  at  Tellson’s  door,  who 
made  off  with  it,  was  put  to  Death;  the  coiner  of  a bad 
shilling  was  put  to  Death;  the  sounders  of  three-fourths  of 
the  notes  in  the  whole  gamut  of  Crime,  were  put  to  Death. 
Not  that  it  did  the  least  good  in  the  way  of  prevention — it 
might  almost  have  been  worth  remarking  that  the  fact  was 
exactly  the  reverse — but,  it  cleared  off  (as  to  this  world) 
the  trouble  of  each  particular  case,  and  left  nothing  else 
connected  with  it  to  be  looked  after.  Thus,  Tellson’s,  in 
its  day,  like  greater  places  of  business,  its  contemporaries, 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


49 


had  taken  so  many  lives,  that,  if  the  heads  laid  low  before 
it  had  been  ranged  on  Temple  Bar  instead  of  being  pri- 
vately disposed  of,  they  would  probably  have  excluded 
what  little  light  the  ground  floor  had,  in  a rather  signifi- 
cant manner. 

Cramped  in  all  kinds  of  dim  cupboards  and  hutches  at 
Tellson’s,  the  oldest  of  men  carried  on  the  business  gravely. 
When  they  took  a young  man  into  Tellsoii’s  London  house, 
they  hid  him  somewhere  till  he  was  old.  They  kept  him 
in  a dark  place,  like  a cheese,  until  he  had  the  full  Tellson 
flavour  and  blue-mould  upon  him.  Then  only  was  he  per- 
mitted to  be  seen,  spectacularly  poring  over  large  books, 
and  casting  his  breeches  and  gaiters  into  the  general  weight 
of  the  establishment. 


Outside  Tellson ^s — never  by  any  means  in  it,  unLs 
called  in — was  an  odd-job-man,  an  occasional  porter-*- 
messenger,  who  served  as  the  live  sign  of  the  house, 
was  never  absent  during  business  hours,  unless  u 
errand,  and  then  he  was  represented  by  his  so 
urchin  of  twelve,  who  was  his  express  imag 
derstood  that  Tellson’s,  in  a stately  way, 
job-man.  The  house  had  always  tole 
that  capaci^,  and  time  and  tide  h 
the  post.  His  surname  Cr 
occasion  of  his  renouncing  b^ 
ness,  in  the  easterly  parish  i:\mv. 
received  the  added  appellation  of 

The  scene  was  Mr.  Cruncher’s  p 
ing-sword -alley,  Whitefriars  : the 
the  clock  on  a windy  March  morni] 

teen  hundred  and  eighty.  (Mr.  CL 

spoke  of  the  year  of  our  Lord  as  Anna  Dominoes : appar- 
ently under  the  impression  that  the  Christian  era  dated 
from  the  invention  of  a popular  game,  by  a lady  who  had 
bestowed  her  name  upon  it. ) 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  apartments  were  not  in  a savoury  neigh- 
bourhood, and  were  but  two  in  number,  even  if  a closet 
with  a single  pane  of  glass  in  it  might  be  counted  as  one. 
But  they  were  very  decently  kept.  Early  as  it  was-,  on  the 
windy  March  morning,  the  room  in  which  he  lay  abed  was 
already  scrubbed  throughout;  and  between  the  cups  and 
saucers  arranged  for  breakfast,  and  the  lumbering  deal 
table,  a very  clean  white  cloth  was  spread. 


50 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 


Mr.  Cruncher  reposed  under  a patchwork  counterpane, 
like  a Harlequin  at  home.  At  first,  he  slept  heavily,  but, 
by  degrees,  began  to  roll  and  surge  in  bed,  until  he  rose 
above  the  surface,  with  his  spiky  hair  looking  as  if  it  must 
tear  the  sheets  to  ribbons.  At  which  juncture,  he  ex- 
claimed, in  a voice  of  dire  exasperation : 

‘^Bust  me,  if  she  ain’t  at  it  agin!  ” 

A woman  of  orderly  and  industrious  appearance  rose 
from  her  knees  in  a corner,  with  sufficient  haste  and  trepi- 
dation to  show  that  she  was  the  person  referred  to. 

What ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking  out  of  bed  for  a 
boot.  You’re  at  it  agin,  are  you?  ” 

After  hailing  the  morn  with  this  second  salutation,  he 
, ^ threw  a boot  at  the  woman  as  a third.  It  was  a very 
^;*::^"^^uddy  boot,  and  may  introduce  the  odd  circumstance  con- 
with  Mr.  Cruncher’s  domestic  economy,  that,  where- 
often  came  home  after  banking  hours  with  clean 
ho  often  got  up  next  morning  to  find  the  same  boots 
|gi^h  clay. 

^^^id  Mr.  Cruncher,  varying  his  apostrophe  after 
yon  up  to,  Aggerawayter?  ” 
s^^g^  prayers . ” 

. You’re  a nice  woman!  What 
do  you  meAj^g^flop^^j(your«cli  aown  and  praying  agin 
me?” 

was  not  gainst  you;  I was  praying  for 

you.”  - ‘ 


if  you  were,  I won’t  be  took  the 
"^l^^injgpur  mother’s  a nice  woman,  young 
agin  your  father’ s prosperity. 
*tfiother , you  have,  my  son.  You’ve 
a religious  mother,  you  have,  my  boy : going  and  flop- 
ping herself  down,  and  praying  that  the  bread-and-butter 
may  be  snatched  out  of  the  mouth  of  her  only  child.” 

- Master  Cruncher  (who  was  in  his  shirt)  took  this  very 
ill,  and,  turning  to  his  mother,  strongly  deprecated  any 
praying  away  of  his  personal  board. 

And  what  do  you  suppose,  you  conceited  female,”  said 
Mr.  Cruncher,  with  unconscious  inconsistency,  ‘Hhat  the 
worth  of  your  prayers  may  be?  Name  the  price  that  you 
put  your  prayers  at ! ” 

‘^They  only  come  from  the  heart,  Jerry.  They  are 
worth  no  more  than  that.” 


YOU’RE  AT  IT  AGAIN.  ARE  YOU  ? " 


r . 


i 

i 

1 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


51 


Worth  no  more  than  that/^  repeated  Mr.  Cruncher. 
^^They  ain’t  worth  much,  then.  Whether  or  no,  I won’t  be 
prayed  agin,  I tell  you.  I can’t  afford  it.  I’m  not  a go- 
ing to  be  made  unlucky  by  your  sneaking.  If  you  must  go 
flopping  yourself  down,  flop  in  favour  of  your  husband  and 
child,  and  not  in  opposition  to  ’em.  If  I had  had  any  but 
a unnat’ral  wife,  and  this  poor  boy  had  had  any  but  a un- 
nat’ral  mother,  I might  have  made  some  money  last  week 
instead  of  being  counterprayed  and  countermined  and  relig- 
iously circumwented  into  the  worst  of  luck.  B-u-u-ust 
me ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who  all  this  time  had  been  put- 
ting on  his  clothes,  ‘^if  I ain’t,  what  with  piety  and  one 
bio  wed  thing  and  another,  been  choused  this  last»week  into 
as  bad  luck  aS'  ever  a poor  devil  of  a honest  tradesman  met 
with ! Young  Jerry,  dress  yourself,  my  boy,  and  while  I 
clean  my  boots  keep  a eye  upon  your  mother  now  and  then, 
and  if  you  see  any  signs  of  more  flopping,  give  me  a call. 
For,  I tell  you,”  here  he  addressed  his  wife  once  more,  ^^I 
won’t  be  gone  agin,  in  this  manner.  I am  as  rickety  as  a 
hackney-coach,  I’m  as  sleepy  as  laudanum,  my  lines  is 
strained  to  that  degree  that  I shouldn’t  know,  if  it  wasn’t 
for  the  pain  in  ’em,  which  was  me  and  which  somebody 
else,  yet  I’m  none  the  better  for  it  in  pocket;  and  it’s  my 
suspicion  that  you’ve  been  at  it  from  morning  to  night  to 
prevent  me  from  being  the  better  for  it  in  pocket,  and  I 
won’t  put  up  with  it,  Aggerawayter,  and  what  do  you  say 
now ! ” 

Growling,  in  addition,  such  phrases  as  ^‘Ah!  yes! 
You’re  religious,  too.  You  wouldn’t  put  yourself  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  interests  of  your  husband  and  child,  would 
you?  Not  you!”  and  throwing  off  other  sarcastic  sparks 
form  the  whirlifig  grindstone  of  his  indignation,  Mr. 
Cruncher  betook  himself  to  his  boot-cleaning  and  his  gen- 
eral preparation  for  business.  In  the  meantime,  his  son, 
whose  head  was  garnished  with  tenderer  spikes,  and  whose 
young  eyes  stood  close  by  one  another,  as  his  father’s  did, 
kept  the  required  watch  upon  his  mother.  He  greatly  dis- 
turbed that  poor  woman  at  intervals,  by  darting  out  of  his 
sleeping  closet,  where  he  made  his  toilet,  with  a suppressed 
cry  of  You  are  going  to  flop,  mother. — Halloa,  father!” 
and,  after  raising  this  fictitious  alarm,  darting  in  again 
with  an  undutiful  grin. 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  temper  was  not  at  all  improved  when  he 


52 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


came  to  his  breakfast.  He  resented  Mrs.  Cruncher’s  say- 
ing grace  with  particular  animosity. 

“Now,  Aggeraway ter ! What  are  you  up  to?  At  it 
again?  ” 

His  wife  explained  that  she  had  merely  “ asked  a bless- 
ing.” 

“Don’t  do  it!”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  looking  about,  as  if 
he  rather  expected  to  see  the  loaf  disappear  under  the 
efficacy  of  his  wife’s  petitions.  “I  ain’t  a going  to  be 
blest  out  of  house  and  home.  I won’t  have  my  wittles 
blest  off  my  table.  Keep  still!  ” 

Exceedingly  red-eyed  and  grim,  as  if  he  had  been  up  all 
night  at  a party  which  had  taken  anything  but  a convivial 
turn,  Jerry  Cruncher  worried  his  breakfast  rather  than  ate 
it,  growling  over  it  like  any  four-footed  inmate  of  a men- 
agerie. Towards  nine  o’clock  he  smoothed  his  ruffled 
aspect,  and,  presenting  as  respectable  and  business-like  an 
exterior  as  he  could  overlay  his  natural  self  with,  issued 
forth  to  the  occupation  of  the  day. 

It  could  scarcely  be  called  a trade,  in  spite  of  his  favour- 
ite description  of  himself  as  “a  honest  tradesman.”  His 
stock  consisted  of  a wooden  stool,  made  out  of  a broken- 
backed  chair  cut  down,  which  stool,  young  Jerry,  walking 
at  his  father’s  side,  carried  every  morning  to  beneath  the 
banking-house  window  that  was  nearest  Temple  Bar : 
where,  with  the  addition  of  the  first  handful  of  straw  that 
could  be  gleaned  from  any  passing  vehicle  to  keep  the  cold 
and  wet  from  the  odd-job-man’s  feet,  it  formed  the  en- 
campment for  the  day.  On  this  post  of  his,  Mr.  Cruncher! 
was  as  well  known  to  Fleet-street  and  the  Temple,  as  the  I 
Bar  itself, — and  was  almost  as  ill-looking. 

Encamped  at  a quarter  before  nine,  in  good  time  to  touch 
his  three-cornered  hat  to  the  oldest  of  men  as  they  passed 
in  to  Tellson’s,  Jerry  took  up  his  station  on  this  windy 
March  morning,  with  young  Jerry  standing  by  him,  when 
not  engaged  in  making  forays  through  the  Bar,  to  inflict 
bodily  and  mental  injuries  of  an  acute  description  on  pass- 
ing boys  who  were  small  enough  for  his  amiable  purpose. 
Father  and  son,  extremely  like  each  other,  looking  silently 
on  at  the  morning  traffic  in  Fleet-street,  with  their  two 
heads  as  near  to  one  another  as  the  two  eyes  of  each  were 
bore  a considerable  resemblance  to  a pair  of  monkeys.  T 
resemblance  was  not  lessened  by  the  accidental  circ?,  (L 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


63 


stance,  that  the  mature  Jerry  bit  and  spat  out  straw,  while 
the  twinkling  eyes  of  the  youthful  Jerry  were  as  restlessly 
watchful  of  him  as  of  everything  else  in  Fleet-street. 

The  head  of  one  of  the  regular  indoor  messengers  at- 
tached to  Tellson’s  establishment  was  put  through  the 
door,  and  the  word  was  given : 

Porter  wanted ! 

Hooray,  father!  Here’s  an  early  job  to  begin  with!  ” 

Having  thus  given  his  parent  God  speed,  young  Jerry 
seated  himself  on  the  stool,  entered  on  his  reversionary  in- 
terest in  the  straw  his  father  had  been  chewing,  and  cogi- 
tated. 

''  Al-ways  rusty ! His  fingers  is  al-ways  rusty ! ” mut- 
tered young  Jerry.  Where  does  my  father  get  all  that 
ron  rust  from?  He  don’t  get  no  iron  rust  here ! ” 


CHAPTER  II, 

A SIGHT. 

^Wou  know  the  Old  Bailey,  well,  no  doubt?”  said  one 
)f  the  oldest  of  clerks  to  Jerry  the  messenger. 

'' Ye-es,  sir,”  returned  Jerry,  in  something  of  a dogged 
uanner.  do  know  the  Bailey.” 

Just  so.  And  you  know  Mr.  Lorry.” 

know  Mr.  Lorry,  sir,  much  better  than  I know  the 
bailey.  Much  better,”  said  Jerry,  not  unlike  a reluctant 
?'itness  at  the  establishment  in  question,  ^Hhan  I,  as  a 
onest  tradesman,  wish  to  know  the  Bailey.” 

“Very  well.  Find  the  door  where  the  witnesses  go  in, 
nd  show  the  door-keeper  this  note  for  Mr.  Lorry.  He 
dll  then  let  you  in.” 

“ Into  the  court,  sir?  ” 

“ Into  the  court.  ” 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  eyes  seemed  to  get  a little  closer  to  one 
nother,  and  to  interchange  the  inquiry,  “ What  do  you 
link  of  this?”  > ■ 

“Am  I to  wait  in  the  court,  sir?”  he  asked,  as  the  re- 
lit  of  that  con'll';' rence. 

I am  going  to  tell  you.  The  door-keeper  will  pass  the 


54 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


note  to  Mr.  Lorry,  and  do  you  make  any  gesture  that  will 
attract  Mr.  Lorry’s  attention,  and  show  him  where  you 
stand.  Then  what  you  have  to  do,  is,  to  remain  there  uii-  : 
til  he  wants  you.”  I 

“ Is  that  all,  sir?  ” 

“ That’s  all.  He  wishes  to  have  a messenger  at  hand. 
This  is  to  tell  him  you  are  there.” 

As  the  ancient  clerk  deliberately  folded  and  superscribed 
the  note,  Mr.  Cruncher,  after  surveying  him  in  silence  un- 
til he  came  to  the  blotting-paper  stage,  remarked: 

“ I suppose  they’ll  be  trying  Forgeries  this  morning?  ” 

“ Treason ! ” 

“That’s  quartering,”  said  Jerry.  “Barbarous!” 

“It  is  the  law,”  remarked  the  ancient  clerk,  turning  his  j 
surprised  spectacles  upon  him.  “ It  is  the  law.”  ' 

“ It’s  hard  in  the  law  to  spile  a man,  I think.  It’s  hard 
enough  to  kill  him,  but  it’s  wery  hard  to  spile  him,  sir.” 
“Not  at  all,”  returned  the  ancient  clerk.  “ Speak  well 
of  the  law.  Take  care  of  your  chest  and  voice,  my  good  j 
friend,  and  leave  the  law  to  take  care  of  itself.  I give  you  i 
that  advice.” 

“ It’s  the  damp,  sir,  what  settles  on  my  chest  and  voice,” 
said  Jerry.  “I  leave  you  to  judge  what  a damp  way  of  i 
earning  a living  mine  is.” 

“ Well,  well,”  said  the  old  clerk;  “we  all  have  our  vari- 
ous ways  of  gaining  a livelihood.  Some  of  us  have  damp 
ways,  and  some  of  us  have  dry  ways.  Here  is  the  letter. 
Go  along.” 

Jerry  took  the  letter,  and,  remarking  to  himself  with 
less  internal  deference  than  he  made  an  outward  show  of, 
“You  are  a lean  old  one,  too,”  made  his  bow,  informed  his: 
son,  ill  passing,  of  his  destination,  and  went  his  way. 

They  hanged  at  Tyburn,  in  those  days,  so  the  street  out- 
side Newgate  had  not  obtained  one  infamous  notoriety  that 
has  since  attached  to  it.  But,  the  gaol  was  a vile  place,} 
in  which  most  kinds  of  debauchery  and  villainy  were  prac-: 
tised,  and  where  dire  diseases  were  bred,  that  came  into 
court  with  the  prisoners,  and  sometimes  rushed  straight 
from  the  dock  at  my  Lord  Chief  Justice  himself,  and 
pulled  him  off  the  bench.  It  had  more  than  once  hap- 
pened, that  the  Judge  in  the  black  cap  pronounced  his 
own  doom  as  certainly  as  the  prisoner’s,  a’^^  even  died  be-; 
fore  him.  For  the  rest,  the  Old  Bailey  was  famous  as  aj 


56 


A TAe  of  two  cities. 

kind  of  deadly  inn-y^^j^  from  which  pale  travellf"'s  set 
xii’carts  and  coaclieSj  on  a violent  })assage 
mto'oiie  other  world : traversing  some  two  miles  and  a half 
of  public  street  and  road,  and  shaming  few  good  citizens, 
if  any.  So  powerful  is  use,  and  so  desirable  to  be  good 
use  in  the  beginning.  It  was  famous,  too,  for  the  pillory, 
a wise  old  institution,  that  inflicted  a punishment  of  which 
no  one  could  forsee  the  extent;  also,  for  the  whipping- 
post, another  dear  old  institution,  very  humanising  and 
softening  to  behold  in  action;  also,  for  extensive  transac- 
tions in  blood-i^^^'ery , another  fragment  of  ancestral  wis- 
dom, syste'inatically  leading  to  the  most  frightful  mer- 
cenary crimes  that  could  be  committed  under  Heaven. 
Altogether,  the  Old  Bailey,  at  that  date,  was  a choice  illus- 
tration of  the  precept,  that  Whatever  is  is  right;  an 
aphorism  that  would  be  as  final  as  it  is  lazy,  did  it  not  in- 
clude the  troublesome  consequence,  that  nothing  that  ever 
was,  was  wrong. 

Making  his  way  through  the  tainted  crowd,  dispersed  up 
and  down  this  hideous  scene  of  action,  with  the  skill  of  a 
man  accustomed  to  make  his  way  quietly,  the  messenger 
found  out  the  door  he  sought,  and  handed  in  his  letter 
through  a trap  in  it.  For,  people  then  paid  to  see  the 
play  at  the  Old  Bailey,  just  as  they  paid  to  see  the  play  in 
Bedlam — only  the  former  entertainment  was  much  the 
dearer.  Therefore,  all  the  Old  Bailey  doors  were  well 
guarded — except,  indeed,  the  social  doors  by  which  the 
criminals  got  there,  and  those  were  always  left  wide  open. 

After  some  delay  and  demur,  the  door  grudgingly  turned 
on  its  hinges  a very  little  way,  and  allowed  Mr.  Jerry 
Cruncher  to  squeeze  himself  into  court. 

‘‘What’s  on?”  he  asked,  in  a whisper,  of  the  man  he 
found  himself  next  to. 

“ Nothing  yet.  ” 

“ What’s  coming  on?  ” 

“The  Treason  case.” 

“ The  quartering  one,  eh?  ” 

Ah ! ” returned  the  man,  with  a relish;  “ he’ll  be  drawn 
on  a hurdle  to  be  half  hanged,  and  then  he’ll  Be  taken 
down  and  sliced  before  his  own  face,  and  then  his  inside 
will  be  taken  out  and  burnt  while  he  looks  on,  and  then  his 
head  will  be  chopped  off,  and  he’ll  be  cut  into  quarters 
That’s  the  sentence.” 


56 


A.  TALE  OF  TWO  aTIES. 

“ If  he’s  found  Guilty,  you  meai^'O  say?  ” Jerry  added, 
by  way  of  proviso.  _<cn 

“Oh!  they’ll  find  him  guilty,”  said  the  other.' 
you  be  afraid  of  that.” 

Mr.  Cruncher’s  attention  was  here  diverted  to  the  door- 
keeper, whom  he  saw  making  his  way  to  Mr.  Lorry,  with 
the  note  in  his  hand.  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  a table,  among 
the  gentlemen  in  wigs : not  far  from  a wigged  gentleman, 
the  prisoner’s  counsel,  who  had  a great  bundle  of  papers 
before  him : and  nearly  opposite  another  wigged  gentleman 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whose  "'-hole  attention,  when 
Mr.  Cruncher  looked  at  him  then  ol  •j£teC’^?irds,  seemed  to 
be  concentrated  on  the  ceiling  of  the  court.  After  some 
gruff  coughing  and  rubbing  of  his  chin  and  signing  with  his 
hand,  Jerry  attracted  the  notice  of  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had 
stood  up  to  look  for  him,  and  who  quietly  nodded  and  sat 
down  again. 

“ What’s  he  got  to  do  with  the  case?  ” asked  the  man  he 
had  spoken  with. 

“Blest  if  I know,”  said  Jerry. 

“ What  have  you  got  to  do  with  it,  then,  if  a person  may 
inquire?  ” 

“ Blest  if  I know  that  either,”  said  Jerry. 

The  entrance  of  the  Judge,  and  a consequent  great  stir 
and  settling  down  in  the  court,  stopped  the  dialogue.  Pres- 
ently, the  dock  became  the  central  point  of  interest.  Two 
gaolers,  who  had  been  standing  there,  went  out,  and  the 
prisoner  was  brought  in,  and  put  to  the  bar. 

Everybody  present,  except  the  one  wigged  gentleman 
who  looked  at  the  ceiling,  stared  at  him.  All  the  human 
breath  in  the  place,  rolled  at  him,  like  a sea,  or  a wind,  or 
a fire.  ^Eager  faces  strained  round  pillars  and  corners,  to 
get  a sight  of  him;  spectators  in  back  rows  stood  up,  not 
to  miss  a hair  of  him;  people  on  the  floor  of  the  court,  laid 
their  hands  on  the  shoulders  of  the  people  before  them,  to 
help  themselves,  at  anybody’s  cost,  to  a view  of  him — 
stood  a-tiptoe,  got  upon  ledges,  stood  upon  next  to  nothing, 
to  see  every  inch  of  him.  Conspicuous  among  these  latter, 
like  an  animated  bit  of  the  spiked  wall  of  Newgate,  Jerry 
stood : aiming  at  the  prisoner  the  beery  breath  of  a whet  he 
had  taken  as  he  came  along,  and  discharging  it  to  mingle 
with  the  waves  of  other  beer,  and  gin,  and  tea,  and  coffee, 
and  what  not,  that  flowed  at  him,  and  already  broke  upon 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


59 


arm,  as  she  sat  by  him,  and  the  other  pressed  upon  it. 
She  had  drawn  close  to  him,  in  her  dread  of  the  scene,  and 
in  her  pity  for  the  prisoner.  Her  forehead  had  been  strik- 
ingly expressive  of  an  engrossing  terror  and  compassion 
that  saw  nothing  but  the  peril  of  the  accused.  This  had 
been  so  very  noticeable,  so  very  powerfully  and  naturally 
shown,  that  starers  who  had  had  no  pity  for  him  were 
touched  by  her;  and  the  whisper  went  about,  ‘‘Who  are 
they? 

Jerry,  the  messenger,  who  had  made  his  own  observa- 
tions, in  his  own  manner,  and  who  had  been  sucking  the 
rust  off  his  fingers  in  his  absorption,  stretched  his  neck  to 
hear  who  they  were.  The  crowd  about  him  had  pressed 
and  passed  the  inquiry  on  to  the  nearest  attendant,  and 
from  him  it  had  been  more  slowly  pressed  and  passed  back; 
at  last  it  got  to  Jerry : 

“Witnesses.” 

“ For  which  side?  ” 

“ Against.” 

“ Against  what  side?  ” 

“The  prisoner’s.” 

The  Judge,  whose  eyes  had  gone  in  the  general  direc- 
tion, recalled  them,  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and  looked 
steadily  at  the  man  whose  life  was  in  his  hand,  as  Mr.  At- 
torney-General rose  to  spin  the  rope,  grind  the  axe,  and 
hammer  the  nails  into  the  scaffold. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Mr.  Attorney-General  had  to  inform  the  jury,  that 
the  prisoner  before  ^^Jtiem,  though  young  in  years,  was  old 
in  the  treasonable  practices  which  claimed  the  forfeit  of 
his  life.  That  this  correspondence  with  the  public  enemy 
was  not  a correspondence  of  to-day,  or  of  yesterday,  or 
even  of  last  year,  or  of  the  year  before.  That,  it  was  cer- 
tain the  prisoner  had,  for  longer  than  that,  been  in  the 
habit  of  passing  and  repassing  between  France  and  Eng- 
land, on  secret  business  of  which  he  could  give  no  honest 


60 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


account.  That,  if  it  were  in  the  nature  of  traitorous  ways 
to  thrive  (which  happily  it  never  was),  the  real  wickedness 
and  guilt  of  his  business  might  have  remained  undiscov- 
ered. That  Providence,  however,  had  put  it  into  the  heart 
of  a person  who  was  beyond  fear  and  beyond  reproach,  to 
ferret  out  the  nature  of  the  prisoner’s  schemes,  and,  struck 
with  horror,  to  disclose  them  to  his  Majesty’s  Chief  Secre- 
tary of  State  and  most  honourable  Privy  Council.  That, 
this  patriot  would  be  produced  before  them.  That,  his 
position  and  attitude  were,  on  the  whole,  sublime.  That, 
he  had  been  the  prisoner’s  friend,  but,  at  once  in  an  aus- 
picious and  an  evil  hour  detecting  his  infamy,  had  resolved 
to  immolate  the  traitor  he  could  no  longer  cherish  in  his 
bosom,  on  the  sacred  altar  of  his  country.  That,  if  statues 
were  decreed  in  Britain,  as  in  ancient  Greece  and  Pome,  to 
public  benefactors,  this  shining  citizen  would  assuredly 
have  had  one.  That,  as  they  were  not  so  decreed,  he  prob- 
ably would  not  have  one.  That,  Virtue,  as  had  been  ob- 
served by  the  poets  (in  many  passages  which  he  well  knew 
the  jury  would  have,  word  for  word,  at  the  tips  of  their 
tongues;  whereat  the  jury’s  countenances  displayed  a guilty 
consciousness  that  they  knew  nothing  about  the  passages), 
was  in  a manner  contagious;  more  especially  the  bright' 
virtue  known  as  patriotism,  or  love  of  country.  That,  the' 
lofty  example  of  this  immaculate  and  unimpeachable  wit- 
ness for  the  Crown,  to  refer  to  whom  however  unworthily' 
was  an  honour,  had  communicated  itself  to  the  prisoner’s; 
servant,  and  had  engendered  in  him  a holy  determination 
to  examine  his  master’s  table-drawers  and  pockets,  and 
secrete  his  papers.  That,  he  (Mr.  Attorney-General)  was 
prepared  to  hear  some  disparagement  attempted  of  this  ad- 
mirable servant;  but  that,  in  a general  way,  he  preferred 
him  to  his  (Mr.  Attorney-General’s)  brothers  and  sisters, 
and  honoured  him  more  than  his  (Mr.  Attorney-General’s) 
father  and  mother.  That,  he  called  with  confidence  on  the 
jury  to  come  and  do  likewise.  That,  the  evidence  of  these 
two  witnesses,  coupled  with  the  documents  of  their  dis- 
covering that  would  be  produced,  would  show  the  prisoner 
to  have  been  furnished  with  lists  of  his  Majesty’s  forces, 
and  of  their  disposition  and  preparation,  both  by  sea  and 
land,  and  would  leave  no  doubt  that  he  had  habitually  con- 
veyed such  information  to  a hostile  power.  That,  these 
lists  could  not  be  proved  to  be  in  the  prisoner’s  hand  writ- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


61 


ing;  but  that  it  was  all  the  same;  that,  indeed,  it  was 
rather  the  better  for  the  prosecution,  as  showing  the  pris- 
oner to  be  artful  in  his  precautions.  That,  the  proof  would 
go  back  five  years,  and  would  show  the  prisoner  already 
engaged  in  these  pernicious  missions,  within  a few  weeks 
before  the  date  of  the  very  first  action  fought  between  the 
British  troops  and  the  Americans.  That,  for  these  reasons, 
bhe  jury,  being  a loyal  jury  (as  he  knew  they  were),  and 
being  a responsible  jury  (as  they  knew  they  were),  must 
positively  find  the  prisoner  Guilty,  and  make  an  end  of 
aim,  whether  they  liked  it  or  not.  That,  they  never  could 
.ay  their  heads  upon  their  pillows;  that,  they  never  could 
}olerate  the  idea  of  their  wives  laying  their  heads  upon 
,;heir  pillows;  that,  they  never  could  endure  the  notion  of 
j;heir  children  laying  their  heads  upon  their  pillows;  in 
ihort,  that  there  never  more  could  be,  for  them  or  theirs, 
my  laying  of  heads  upon  pillows  at  all,  unless  the  prison- 
;ir\s  head  was  taken  off.  That  head  Mr.  Attorney-General 
I'oncluded  by  demanding  of  them,  in  the  name  of  every- 
king  he  could  think  of  with  a round  turn  in  it,  and  on  the 
aith  of  his  solemn  asservation  that  he  already  considered 
(he  prisoner  as  good  as  dead  and  gone. 

When  the  Attorney-General  ceased,  a buzz  arose  in  the 
ourt  as  if  a cloud  of  great  blue-flies  were  swarming  about 
he  prisoner,  in  anticipation  of  what  he  was  soon  to  be- 
ome.  When  toned  down  again,  the  unimpeachable  patriot 
ppeared  in  the  witness-box. 

Mr.  Solicitor-General  then,  following  his  leader’s  lead, 
xamined  the  patriot:  John  Barsad,  gentleman,  byname. 
Ihe  story  of  his  pure  soul  was  exactly  what  Mr.  Attorney- 
leneral  had  described  it  to  be— -perhaps,  if  it  had  a fault, 
i little  too  exactly.  Having  released  his  noble  bosom  of  i 
3s  burden,  he  would  have  modestly  withdrawn  himself,  I 
ut  that  the  wigged  gentleman  with  the  papers  before  him,  / 
itting  not  far  from  Mr.  Lorry,  begged  to  ask  him  a few/ 
uestions.  The  wigged  gentleman  sitting  opposite,  sti>l' 
)oking  at  the  ceiling  of  the  court. 

Had  he  ever  been  a spy  himself?  No,  he  scorned  the  <7- 
ase  insinuation.  What  did  he  live  upon?  His  property, 
inhere  was  his  property?  He  didn’t  precisely  remember 
here  it  was.  What  was  it?  No  business  of  anybody’s. 

Lad  he  inherited  it?  Yes,  he  had.  From  whom?  His- 
intrelation.  Very  distant?  Bather.  Ever  been  in  prison? 


62 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Certainly  not.  Never  in  a debtors’  prison?  Didn’t  see 
what  that  had  to  do  with  it.  Never  in  a debtors’  prison? 

Come,  once  again.  Never?  Yes.  How  many  times? 

Two  or  three  times.  Not  five  or  six?  Perhaps.  Of  what 
profession?  Gentleman.  Ever  been  kicked?  Might  have 
been.  Frequently?  No.  Ever  kicked  down-stairs?  De- 
cidedly not;  once  received  a kick  on  the  top  of  a stair- 
case, and  fell  down-stairs  of  his  own  accord.  Kicked  on 
that  occasion  for  cheating  at  dice?  Something  to  that 
efPect  was  said  by  the  intoxicated  liar  who  committed'the 
assault,  but  it  was  not  true.  Swear  it  was  not  true?  Posi- 
tively. Ever  live  by  cheating  at  play?  Never.  Ever  live 
by  play?  Not  more  than  other  gentlemen  do.  Ever  bor- 
row money  of  the  prisoner?  Yes.  Ever  pay  him?  No. 
Was  not  this  intimacy  with  the  prisoner,  in  reality  a very 
slight  one,  forced  upon  the  prisoner  in  coaches,  inns,  and 
packets?  No.  Sure  he  saw  the  prisoner  with  these  lists? 
Certain.  Knew  no  more  about  the  lists?  No.  Had  not 
procured  them  himself,  for  instance?  No.  Expect  to  get 
anything  by  this  evidence?  No.  Not  in  regular  govern- 
ment pay  and  employment,  to  lay  traps?  Oh  dear  no.  Or 
to  do  anything?  Oh  dear  no.  Swear  that?  Over  and 
over  again.  No  motives  but  motives  of  sheer  patriotism? 
None  whatever. 

The  virtuous  servant,  Roger  Cly,  swore  his  way  tUrough 
the  case  at  a great  rate.  He  had  taken  service  with  the 
prisoner,  in  good  faith  and  simplicity,  four  years  ago.  He 
had  asked  the  prisoner,  aboard  the  Calais  packet,  if  he 
wanted  a handy  fellow,  and  the  prisoner  had  engaged  him. 
He  had  not  asked  the  prisoner  to  take  the  handy  fellow  as 
an  act  of  charity— never  thought  of  such  a thing.  He  be- 
gan to  have  suspicions  of  the  prisoner,  and  to  keep  an  eye 
upon  him,  soon  afterwads.  In  arranging  his  clothes,  while 
travelling,  he  had  seen  similar  lists  to  these  in  the  prison- 
er’s pockets,  over  and  over  again.  He  had  taken  these  lists 
from  the  drawer  of  the  prisoner’s  desk.  He  had  not  put 
them  there  first.  He  had  seen  the  prisoner  show  these 
identical  lists  to  French  gentlemen  at  Calais,  and  similar 
lists  to  French  gentlemen,  both  at  Calais  and  Boulogne. 
He  loved  his  country,  and  couldn’t  bear  it,  and  had  given 
information.  He  had  never  been  suspected  of  stealing  a 
silver  tea-pot;  he  had  been  maligned  respecting  a mustardn 
pot,  but  it  tui-ned  out  to  be  only  a plated  one.  He  had 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


63 


known  the  last  witness  seven  or  eight  years;  that  was 
merely  a coincidence.  He  didn’t  call  it  a particularly  curi- 
ous coincidence;  most  coincidences  were  curious.  Neither 
did  he  call  it  a curious  coincidence  that  true  patriotism  was 
his  only  motive  too.  He  was  a true  Briton,  and  hoped 
there  were  many  like  him. 

The  blue-flies  buzzed  again,  and  Mr.  Attorney-General 
called  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry. 

^^Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry,  are  you  a clerk  in  Tellson’s  bank?  ” 
^^lam.” 

On  a certain  Friday  night  in  November  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  seventy-five,  did  business  occasion  you 
to  travel  between  London  and  Dover  by  the  mail?  ” 

It  did.” 

Were  there  any  other  passengers  in  the  mail?  ” 

^^Two.” 

‘^Did  they  alight  on  the  road  in  the  course  of  the 
night?  ” 

^^They  did.” 

“Mr.  Lorry,  look  upon  the  prisoner.  Was  he  one  of 
those  two  passengers?  ” 

“ I cannot  undertake  to  say  that  he  was.” 

“Does  he  resemble  either  of  these  two  passengers?  ” 

“ Both  were  so  wrapped  up,  and  the  night  was  so  dark, 
nid  we  were  all  so  reserved,  that  I cannot  undertake  to  say 
3ven  that.” 

“Mr.  Lorry,  look  again  upon  the  prisoner.  Supposing 
lim  wrapped  up  as  those  two  passengers  were,  is  there 
my  thing  in  his  bulk  and  stature  to  render  it  unlikely  that 
le  was  one  of  them?  ” 

“No.” 

“ You  will  not  swear,  Mr.  Lorry,  that  he  was  not  one  of 
■flem?” 

“No.” 

So  at  least  you  say  he  may  have  been  one  of  them?  ” 

Yes.  Except  that  I remember  them  both  to  have  been 
—like  myself — timorous  of  highwaymen,  and  the  prisoner 
las  not  a timorous  air.” 

“ Did  you  ever  see  a counterfeit  of  timidity,  Mr.  Lorry?  ” 
“I  certainly  have  seen  that.” 

“Mr.  Lorry,  look  once  more  upon  the  prisoner.  Have 
'ou  seen  him,  to  your  certain  knowledge,  before?” 

Hve.” 


64 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


« When?  ” 

I was  returning  from  France  a few  days  afterwards, 
and,  at  Calais,  the  prisoner  came  on  board  the  packet-ship 
in  which  I returned,  and  made  the  voyage  with  me.^’ 

At  what  hour  did  he  come  on  board? 

At  a little  after  midnight.” 

''In  the  dead  of  the  night.  Was  he  the  only  passenger 
who  came  on  board  at  that  untimely  hour?  ” 

" He  happened  to  be  the  only  one.” 

"Nevermind  about  'happening,’  JVIr.  Lorry.  He  was 
the  only  passenger  who  came  on  board  in  the  dead  of  the 
night?  ” 

"He  was.” 

"Were  you  travelling  alone,  Mr.  Lorry,  or  with  any 
companion?  ” 

" With  two  companions.  A gentleman  and  lady.  They 
are  here.” 

"They  are  here.  Had  you  any  conversation  with  the 
prisoner?  ” 

" Hardly  any.  The  weather  was  stormy,  and  the  pas- 
sage long  and  rough,  and  I lay  on  a sofa,  almost  from 
shore  to  shore.” 

" Miss  Manette ! ” 

The  young  lady,  to  whom  all  eyes  had  been  turned  be- 
fore, and  were  now  turned  again,  stood  up  where  she  had, 
sat.  Her  father  rose  with  her,  and  kept  her  hand  drawi^ 
through  his  arm.  i 

" Miss  Manette,  look  upon  the  prisoner.”  . 

To  be  confronted  with  such  pity,  and  such  earnest  youtlij 
and  beauty,  was  far  more  trying  to  the  accused  than  to  be 
confronted  with  all  the  crowd.  Standing,  as  it  were,  apartj 
with  her  on  the  edge  of  his  grave,  not  all  the  staring  curi- 
osity that  looked  on,  could,  for  the  moment,  nerve  him  tc 
remain  quite  still.  His  hurried  right  hand  parcelled^  oiu 
the  herbs  before  him  into  imaginary  beds  of  flowers  in  c 
garden;  and  his  efforts  to  control  and  steady  his  breathinc 
shook  the  lips  from  which  the  colour  rushed  to  his  heart 
The  buzz  of  the  great  flies  was  loud  again. 

" Miss  Manette,  have  you  seen  the  prisoner  before?  ” 
"Yes,  sir.” 

"Where?” 

" On  board  of  the  packet-ship  just  now  referred  to,  sir 
and  on  the  same  occasion.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


65 


You  are  the  young  lady  just  now  referred  to?  ” 

0 ! most  unhappily,  I am ! 

The  plaintive  tone  of  her  compassion  merged  into  the 
ess  musical  voice  of  the  Judge,  as  he  said  something 
iercely : Answer  the  questions  put  to  you,  and  make  no 

emark  upon  them.^^ 

Miss  Manette,  had  you  any  conversation  with  the  pris- 
)iier  on  that  passage  across  the  Channel? 

1 “Yes,  sir.” 

I “Eecallit.” 

In  the  midst  of  a profound  stillness,  she  faintly  be- 
,^an : 

. “ When  the  gentleman  came  on  board ” 

j “ Do  you  mean  the  prisoner?  ” inquired  the  Judge,  knit- 
ing  his  brows. 

“ Yes,  my  Lord.” 

“Then  say  the  prisoner.” 

1 “ When  the  prisoner  came  on  board,  he  noticed  that  my 
ather,”  turning  her  eyes  lovingly  to  him  as  he  stood  beside 
ier,  “ was  much  fatigued  and  in  a very  weak  state  of  health, 
dy  father  was  so  reduced  that  I was  afraid  to  take  him  out 
>f  the  air,  and  I had  made  a bed  for  him  on  the  deck  near 
he  cabin  steps,  and  I sat  on  the  deck  at  his  side  to  take 
are  of  him.  There  were  no  other  passengers  that  night, 
)ut  we  four.  The  prisoner  was  so  good  as  to  beg  permis- 
ion  to  advise  me  how  I could  shelter  my  father  from  the 
nnd  and  weather,  better  than  I had  done.  I had  not 
mown  how  to  do  it  well,  not  understanding  how  the  wind 
70uld  set  when  we  were  out  of  the  harbour.  He  did  it  for 
fie.  He  expressed  great  gentleness  and  kindness  for  my 
ather’s  state,  and  I am  sure  he  felt  it.  That  was  the 
aanner  of  our  beginning  to  speak  together.” 

“ Let  me  interrupt  you  for  a moment.  Had  he  come  on 
)oard  alone?  ” 

“No.” 

“ How  many  were  with  him?  ” 

“Two  French  gentlemen.” 

“ Had  they  conferred  together?  ” 

“They  had  conferred  together  until  the  last  moment, 
7hen  it  was  necessary  for  bhe  French  gentlemen  to  be 
.aiided  in  their  boat.” 

^ “ Had  any  papers  been  handed  about  among  them,  sim- 
lar  to  th  *-.«9  ” 


66 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


Some  papers  had  been  handed  about  among  them,  but 
I don’t  know  what  papers.” 

‘^Like  these  in  shape  and  size?” 

Possibly,  but  indeed  I don’t  know,  although  they  stood 
whispering  very  near  to  me : because  they  stood  at  the  top 
of  the  cabin  steps  to  have  the  light  of  the  lamp  that  was 
hanging  there;  it  was  a dull  lamp,  and  they  spoke  very 
low,  and  I did  not  hear  what  they  said,  and  saw  only  that 
they  looked  at  papers.” 

^‘Now,  to  the  prisoner’s  conversation,  Miss  Manette.” 
The  prisoner  was  as  open  in  his  confidence  with  me — 
which  arose  out  of  my  helpless  situation — as  he  was  kind, 
and  good,  and  useful  to  my  father.  I hope,”  bursting  into 
tears,  “1  may  not  repay  him  by  doing  him  harm  to-day.” 
Buzzing  from  the  blue-flies. 

Miss  Manette,  if  the  prisoner  does  not  perfectly  under- 
stand that  you  give  the  evidence  which  it  is  your  duty  to 
give — which  you  must  give — and  which  you  cannot  escape 
from  giving — with  great  unwillingness,  he  is  the  only  per- 
son present  in  that  condition.  Please  to  go  on.” 

He  told  me  that  he  was  travelling  on  business  of  a del- 
icate and  difficult  nature,  which  might  get  people  into  trou- 
ble, and  that  he  was  therefore  travelling  under  an  assumed 
name.  He  said  that  this  business  had,  within  a few  days, 
taken  him  to  France,  and  might,  at  intervals,  take  him 
backwards  and  forwards  between  France  and  England  for 
a long  time  to  come.” 

^‘Hid  he  say  anything  about  America,  Miss  Manette? 
Be  particular.” 

He  tried  to  explain  to  me  how  that  quarrel  had  arisen, 
and  he  said  that,  so  far  as  he  could  judge,  it  was  a wrong 
and 'foolish  one  on  England’s  part.  He  added,  in  a jesting 
way,  that  perhaps  George  Washington  might  gain  almost 
as  great  a name  in  history  as  George  the  Third.  But  there 
was  no  harm  in  his  way  of  saying  this : it  was  said  laugh- 
ingly, and  to  beguile  the  time.” 

Any  strongly  marked  expression  of  face  on  the  part  of  a 
chief  actor  in  a scene  of  great  interest  to  whom  many  eyes 
are  directed,  will  be  unconsciously  imitated  by  the  specta- 
tors. Her  forehead  was  painfully  anxious  and  intent  as 
she  gave  this  evidence,  and,  in  the  pauses  when  she  stopped 
for  the  Judge  to  write  it  down,  watched  its  effect  upon  the 
counsel  for  and  against.  Among  the  ^ was 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


69 


them  how  the  patriot,  Barsad,  was  a hired  spy  and  traitor, 
an  unblushing  trafficker  in  blood,  and  one  of  the  greatest 
scoundrels  upon  earth  since  accursed  Judas — which  he  cer- 
tainly did  look  rather  like.  How  the  virtuous  servant,  Cly, 
was  his  friend  and  partner,  and  was  worthy  to  be ; how  the 
watchful  eyes  of  those  forgers  and  false  swearers  had  rested 
on  the  prisoner  as  a victim,  because  some  family  affairs  in 
France,  he  being  of  French  extraction,  did  require  his  mak- 
ing those  passages  across  the  Channel — though  what  those 
affairs  were,  a consideration  for  others  who  were  near  and 
dear  to  him,  forbade  him,  even  for  his  life,  to  disclose. 
How  the  evidence  that  had  been  warped  and  wrested  from 
the  young  lady,  whose  anguish  in  giving  it  they  had  wit- 
nessed, came  to  nothing,  involving  the  mere  little  innocent 
gallantries  and  politenesses  likely  to  pass  between  any  young 
gentleman  and  young  lady  so  thrown  together — ^with  the 
exception  of  that  reference  to  George  Washington,  which 
was  altogether  too  extravagant  and  impossible  to  be  re- 
garded in  any  other  light  than  as  a monstrous  joke.  How 
it  would  be  a weakness  in  the  government  to  break  down  in 
this  attempt  to  practise  for  popularity  on  the  lowest  na- 
tional antipathies  and  fears,  and  therefore  Mr.  Attorney- 
General  had  made  the  most  of  it;  how,  nevertheless,  it 
rested  upon  nothing,  save  that  vile  and  infamous  character 
of  evidence  too  often  disfiguring  such  cases,  and  of  which 
the  State  Trials  of  this  country  were  full.  But,  there  my 
Lord  interposed  (with  as  grave  a face  as  if  it  had  not  been 
true),  saying  that  he  could  not  sit  upon  that  Bench  and 
suffer  those  allusions. 

Mr.  Stryver  then  called  his  few  witnesses,  and  Mr. 
Cruncher  had  next  to  attend  while  Mr.  Attorney-General 
turned  the  whole  suit  of  clothes  Mr.  Stryver  had  fitted  on 
the  jury,  inside  out;  showing  how  Barsad  and  Cly  were 
even  a Wndred  times  better  than  he  had  thought  them, 
and  the  prisoner  a hundred  times  worse.  Lastly,  came  my 
Lord  himself,  turning  the  suit  of  clothes,  now  inside  out, 
now  outside  in,  but  on  the  whole  decidedly  trimming  and 
shaping  them  into  grave-clothes  for  the  prisoner. 

And  now,  the  jury  turned  to  consider,  and  the  great  flies 
swarmed  again. 

Mr.  Carton,  who  had  so  long  sat  looking  at  the  ceiling  of 
the  court,  changed  neither  his  place  nor  his  attitude,  even 
in  this  excitement.  While  his  learned  friend,  Mr.  Stryver, 


70 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


ina.ssing  his  papers  before  him,  whispered  with  those  who 
sat  near,  and  from  time  to  time  glanced  anxiously  at  the 
jury;  while  all  the  spectators  moved  more  or  less,  and 
grouped  themselves  anew;  while  ev<  n my  Lord  himself 
arose  from  his  seat,  and  slowly  paced  up  and  down  his 
platform,  not  unattended  by  a suspicion  in  the  minds  of 
the  audience  that  his  state  was  feverish ; this  one  man  sat 
leaning  back,  with  his  torn  gown  half  off  him,  his  untidy 
wig  put  on  just  as  it  had  happened  to  light  on  his  head 
after  its  removal,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  eyes  on 
the  ceiling  as  they  had  been  all  day.  Something  especially 
reckless  in  his  demeanour,  not  only  gave  him  a disrepu- 
table look,  but  so  diminished  the  strong  resemblance  he 
undoubtedly  bore  to  the  prisoner  (which  his  momentary  ear- 
nestness, when  they  were  compared  together,  had  strength- 
ened), that  many  of  the  lookers-on,  taking  note  of  him 
now,  said  to  one  another  they  would  hardly  have  thought 
the  two  were  so  alike.  Mr.  Cruncher  made  the  observation 
to  his  next  neighbour,  and  added,  “Pd  hold  half  a guinea 
that  he  don’t  get  no  law-work  to  do.  Don’t  look  like  the 
sort  of  one  to  get  any,  do  he?  ” 

Yet,  this  Mr.  Carton  took  in  more  of  the  details  of  the 
scene  than  he  appeared  to  take  in;  for  now,  when  Miss 
Manette’s  head  dropped  upon  her  father’s  breast,  he  was 
the  first  to  see  it,  and  to  say  audibly : “ Officer ! look  to 
that  young  lady.  Help  the  gentleman  to  take  1 er  out. 
Don’t  you  see  she  will  fall ! ” 

There  was  much  commiseration  for  her  as  she  was  re- 
moved, and  much  sympathy  with  her  father.  It  had  evi- 
dently been  a great  distress  to  him,  to  have  the  days  of  his 
imprisonment  recalled.  He  had  shown  strong  internal  agi- 
tation when  he  was  questioned,  and  that  pondering  or 
brooding  look  rvhich  made  him  old,  had  been  upon  him, 
like  a heavy  cloud,  ever  since.  As  he  passed  out,  the  jury, 
who  had  turned  back  and  paused  a moment,  spoke,  through 
their  foreman. 

They  were  not  agreed,  and  wished  to  retire.  My  Lord 
(perhaps  with  George  Washington  on  his  mind)  showed 
some  surprise  that  they  were  not  agreed,  but  signified  his 
pleasure  that  they  should  retire  under  watch  and  ward,  and 
retired  himself.  The  trial  had  lasted  all  day,  and  the 
lamps  in  the  court  were  now  being  lighted.  It  began  to  be 
rumoured  that  the  jury  would  be  out  a long  while.  The 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


71 


spectators  dropped  off  to  get  refreshment,  and  the  prisoner 
withdrew  to  the  back  of  the  dock,  and  sat  down. 

I Mr.  Lorry,  who  h^jd  gone  out  when  the  young  lady  and 
iier  father  went  out,, ^40 w reappeared,  and  beckoned  to  Jerry : 
who,  in  the  slackened  interest,  could  easily  get  near  him. 

Jerry,  if  you  wish  to  take  something  to  eat,  you  can. 
But,  keep  in  the  way.  You  will  be  sure  to  hear  when  the 
jury  come  in.  Don’t  be  a moment  behind  them,  for  I 
want  you  to  take  the  verdict  back  to  the  bank.  You  are 
:he  quickest  messenger  I know,  and  will  get  to  Temple  Bar 
.ong  before  I can.” 

Jerry  had  just  enough  forehead  to  knuckle,  and  he 
inuckled  it  in  acknowledgment  of  this  communication  and  a 
ihilliiig.  Mr.  Carton  came  up  at  the  moment,  and  touched 
Mr.  Lorry  on  the  arm. 

‘‘How  is  the  young  lady?  ” 

“She  is  greatly  distressed;  but  her  father  is  comforting 
ler,  and  she  feels  the  better  for  being  out  of  court.” 

“ ITl  tell  the  prisoner  so.  It  won’t  do  for  a respectable 
Dank  gentleman  like  you,  to  be  seen  speaking  to  him  pub- 
know.” 

: Mr,  Lorry  reddened  as  if  he  were  conscious  of  having 
lebated  the  point  in  his  mind,  and  Mr.  Carton  made  his 
vay  to  the  outside  of  the  bar.  The  way  out  of  court  lay 
n that  direction,  and  Jerry  followed  him,  all  eyes,  ears, 
ind  spikes. 

“ Mr.  Darnay ! ” 

The  prisoner  came  forward  directly. 

“ You  will  naturally  be  anxious  to  hear  of  the  witness. 
Miss  Manette.  She  will  do  very  well.  You  have  seen  the 
vorst  of  her  agitation.” 

“ I am  deeply  sorry  to  have  been  the  cause  of  it.  Could 
'■ou  tell  her  so  for  me,  with  my  fervent  acknowledgments?  ” 

“ Yes,  I could.  I will,  if  you  ask  it.” 

Mr.  Carton’s  manner  was  so  careless  as  to  be  almost  in- 
olent.  He  stood,  half  turned  from  the  prisoner,  lounging 
vith  his  elbow  against  the  bar. 

“ I do  ask  it.  Accept  my  cordial  thanks.” 

“What,”  said  Carton,  still  only  half  turned  towards 
dm,  “do  you  expect,  Mr.  Darnay?” 

“The  worst.” 

''It’s  the  wisest  thing  to  expect,  and  the  likeliest.  But 
think  their  withdrawing  is  in  your  favour.” 


72 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Loitering  on  the  way  out  of  court  not  being  allowed, 
Jerry  heard  no  more : but  left  them — so  like  each  other  in 
feature,  so  unlike  each  other  in  manner — standing  side  by 
side,  both  reflected  in  the  glass  above  them. 

An  hour  and  a half  limped  heavily  away  in  the  thief-and- 
rascal  crowded  passages  below,  even  though  assisted  off 
with  mutton  pies  and  ale.  The  hoarse  messenger,  uncom- 
fortably seated  on  a form  after  taking  that  refection,  had 
dropped  into  a doze,  when  a loud  murmur  and  a rapid  tide 
of  people  setting  up  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  court,  carried 
him  along  with  them. 

“Jerry!  Jerry!  ” Mr.  Lorry  was  already  calling  at  the 
door  when  he  got  there. 

“ Here,  sir!  It’s  a fight  to  get  back  again.  Here  I am, 
sir!’’ 

Mr.  Lorry  handed  him  a paper  through  the  throng,  i 
“ Quick ! Have  you  got  it?  ” 

“Yes,  sir.”  j 

Hastily  written  on  the  paper  was  the  word  “ Acquitted.”  | 
“If  you  had  sent  the  message,  ^ Eecalled  to  Life,’| 
again,”  muttered  Jerry,  as  he  turned,  “I  should  have] 
known  what  you  meant,  this  time.”  | 

He  had  no  opportunity  of  saying,  or  so  much  as  think- j 
ing,  anything  else,  until  he  was  clear  of  the  Old  Bailey;  | 
for,  the  crowd  came  pouring  out  with  a vehemence  that! 
nearly  took  him  off  his  legs,  and  a loud  buzz  swept  into 
the  street  as  if  the  baffled  blue-flies  were  dispersing  ini 
search  of  other  carrion. 


CHAPTEK  IV. 


CONGRATULATORY. 


From  the  dimly-lighted  passages  of  the  court,  the  last 
sediment  of  the  human  stew  that  had  been  boiling  there 
all  day,  was  straining  off,  when  Doctor  Manette,  Lucie 
Manette,  his  daughter,  Mr.  Lorry,  the  solicitor  for  the  de- 
fence, and  its  counsel,  Mr.  Stryver,  stood  gathered  round ‘ 
Mr.  Charles  Darnay — just  released — congratulating  him  onj 
his  escape  from  death.  i 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


73 


It  would  have  been  difficult  by  a far  brighter  light,  to 
recognise  in  Doctor  Manette,  intellectual  of  face  and  up- 
right of  bearing,  the  shoemaker  of  the  garret  in  Paris. 
Yet,  no  one  could  have  looked  at  him  twice,  without  look- 
ing again : even  though  the  opportunity  of  observation  had 
!uot  extended  to  the  mournful  cadence  of  his  low  grave 
v’oice,  and  to  the  abstraction  that  overclouded  him  fitfully, 
without  any  apparent  reason.  While  one  external  cause, 
and  that  a reference  to  his  long  lingering  agony,  would  al- 
ways— as  on  the  trial — evoke  this  condition  from  the  depths 
Df  his  soul,  it  was  also  in  its  nature  to  arise  of  itself,  and  to 
iraw  a gloom  over  him,  as  incomprehensible  to  those  unac- 
quainted with  his  story  as  if  they  had  seen  the  shadow  of 
]he  actual  Bastille  thrown  upon  him  by  a summer  sun, 
when  the  substance  was  three  hundred  miles  away. 

Only  his  daughter  had  the  power  of  charming  this  black 
orooding  from  his  mind.  She  was  the  golden  thread  that 
inited  him  to  a Past  beyond  his  misery,  and  to  a Present 
oeyond  his  misery  : and  the  sound  of  her  voice,  the  light  of 
aer  face,  the  touch  of  her  hand,  had  a strong  beneficial  in- 
luence  with  him  almost  always.  Not  absolutely  always  • 
for  she  could  recall  some  occasions  on  which  her  power  h 
failed;  but  they  were  few  and  slight,  and  she  believe 
:hem  over. 

Mr.  Darnay  had  kissed  her  hand  fervently  and  gratefully, 
md  had  turned  to  Mr.  Stryver,  whom  he  warmly  thanked. 
Mr.  Stryver,  a man  of  little  more  than  thirty,  but  looking 
twenty  years  older  than  he  was,  stout,  loud,  red,  bluff,  and 
free  from  any  drawback  of  delicacy,  had  a pushing  way  of 
jhouldering  himself  (morally  and  physically)  into  com- 
panies and  conversations,  that  argued  well  for  his  shoul- 
iering  his  way  up  in  life. 

He  still  had  his  wig  and  gown  on,  and  he  said,  squaring 
limself  at  his  late  client  to  that  degree  that  he  squeezed 
:he  innocent  Mr.  Lorry  clean  out  of  the  group : I am  glad 

30  have  brought  you  off  with  honour,  Mr.  Darnay.  It  was 
m infamous  prosecution,  grossly  infamous;  but  not  the  less 
likely  to  succeed  on  that  account.” 

You  have  laid  me  under  an  obligation  to  you  for  life — 
n two  senses,”  said  his  late  client,  taking  his  hand. 

“ I have  done  my  best  for  you,  Mr.  Darnay;  and  my  best 
■S  as  good  as  another  man’s,  I believe.” 

It  clearly  being  incumbent  on  some  one  to  say,  Much 


74 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


better,”  Mr.  Lorry  said  it;  perhaps  not  quite  disinterest- 
edly, but  with  the  interested  object  of  squeezing  himself 
back  again. 

You  think  so?”  said  Mr.  Stryver.  “Well!  you  have 
been  present  all  day,  and  you  ought  to  know.  You  are  a 
man  of  business,  too.” 

“ And  as  such,”  quoth  Mr.  Lorry,  whom  the  counsel 
learned  in  the  law  had  now  shouldered  back  into  the  group, 
just  as  he  had  previously  shouldered  him  out  of  it — “as 
such  I will  appeal  to  Doctor  Manette,  to  break  up  this  con- 
ference and  order  us  all  to  our  homes.  Miss  Lucie  looks 
ill,  Mr.  Darnay  has  had  a terrible  day,  we  are  worn  out.” 

“ Speak  for  yourself,  Mr.  Lorry,”  said  Stryver;  “I  have 
a night’s  work  to  do  yet.  Speak  for  yourself.” 

“I  speak  for  myself,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry,  “and  for 

Mr.  Darnay,  and  for  Miss  Lucie,  and Miss  Lucie,  do 

you  not  think  I may  speak  for  us  all?  ” He  asked  her  the 
question  pointedly,  and  with  a glance  at  her  father. 

His  face  had  become  frozen,  as  it  were,  in  a very  curious 
look  at  Darnay : an  intent  look,  deepening  into  a frown  of 
"Slike  and  distrust,  not  even  unmixed  with  fear.  With 
is  strange  expression  on  him  his  thoughts  had  wandered 
way. 

“My  father,”  said  Lucie,  softly  laying  her  hand  on  his. 
He  slowly  shook  the  shadow  off,  and  turned  to  her. 

“ Shall  we  go  home,  my  father?  ” 

With  a long  breath,  he  answered  “Yes.” 

The  friends  of  the  acquitted  prisoner  had  dispersed,  under 
the  impression — which  he  himself  had  originated — that  he 
would  not  be  released  that  night.  The  lights  were  nearly 
all  extinguished  in  the  passages,  the  iron  gates  were  being 
closed  with  a jar  and  a rattle,  and  the  dismal  place  was 
deserted  until  to-morrow  morning’s  interest  of  gallows,  pil- 
lory, whipping-post,  and  branding-iron,  should  repeople  it. 
Walking  between  her  father  and  Mr.  Darnay,  Lucie  Ma- 
nette passed  into  the  open  air.  A hackney-coach  was 
called,  and  the  father  and  daughter  departed  in  it. 

Mr.  Stryver  had  left  them  in  the  passages,  to  shoulder 
his  way  back  to  the  robing-room.  Another  person,  who 
had  not  joined  the  group,  or  interchanged  a word  with  any 
one  of  them,  but  who  had  been  leaning  against  the  wall 
where  its  shadow  was  darkest,  had  silently  strolled  out 
after  the  rest,  and  had  looked  on  until  the  coach  drovci 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CiriES. 


75 


away.  He  now  stepped  up  to  where  Mr.  Lorry  and  Mr. 
Damay  stood  upon  the  pavement. 

So,  Mr.  Lorry ! Men  of  business  may  speak  to  Mr. 
Darnay  now?  ’’ 

Nobody  had  made  any  acknowledgment  of  Mr.  Carton’s 
part  in  the  day’s  proceedings;  nobody  had  known  of  it. 
He  was  unrobed,  and  was  none  the  better  for  it  in  appear- 
ance. 

If  you  knew  what  a conflict  goes  on  in  the  business 
mind,  when  the  business  mind  is  divided  between  good- 
natured  impulse  and  business  appearances,  you  would  be 
amused,  Mr.  Darnay.” 

^ Mr.  Lorry  reddened,  and  said,  warmly,  You  have  men- 
tioned that  before,  sir.  We  men  of  business,  who  serve  a 
House,  are  not  our  own  masters.  We  have  to  think  of  the 
^House  more  than  ourselves.” 

‘‘ 1 know,  1 know,”  rejoined  Mi\  Carton,  carelessly. 
Don’t  be  nettled,  Mr.  Lorry.  You  are  as  good  as  an- 
other, I have  no  doubt:  better,  I dare  say.” 
i “And  indeed,  sir,”  pursued  Mr.  Lorry,  not  minding  him, 
I really  don’t  know  what  you  have  to  do  with  the  matter. 
Ef  you’ll  excuse  me,  as  very  much  your  elder,  for  saying 
so,  I really  don’t  know  that  it  is  your  business.” 
“Business!  Bless  you,  I have  no  business,”  said  Mr. 
Carton. 

“It  is  a pity  you  have  not,  sir.” 

“ I think  so,  too.” 

^ “If  you  had,”  pursued  Mr,  Lorry,  “perhaps  you  would 
rttend  to  it.” 

' “Lord  love  you,  no! — I shouldn’t,”  said  Mr.  Carton. 

I “Well,  sir!”  cried  Mr.  Lorry, -thoroughly  heated  by  his 
ndifference,  “business  is  a very  good  thing,  and  a very  re- 
spectable thing.  And,  sir,  if  business  imposes  its  restraints 
md  its  silences  and  impediments,  Mr.  I)arnay  as  a yoimg 
gentleman  of  generosity  knows  how  to  n>ake  allowance  for 
Khat  circumstance.  Mr.  Darnay,  good  night,  God  bless 
rou,  sir ! I hone  you  have  been  this  day  preserved  for  a 
brosperoFVdnd  happy  life.— Chair  there!” 

Perh^'ps  a little  angry  with  himself,  as  well  as  with  the 
DaT-rister,  Mr.  Lorry  bustled  into  the  clair,  and  was  car- 
' ied  off  to  Tellson’s.  Carton,  who  smelt  of  port  wine,  and 
lid  not  appear  to  be  quite  sober,  laughed  then,  and  turned 
I io  Darnay : 


76 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


“ This  is  a strange  chance  that  throws  you  and  me  to- 
gether. This  must  be  a strange  night  to  you,  stand- 
ing alone  here  with  your  counterpart  on  these  street 
stones?  ” 

“1  hardly  seem  yet,”  returned  Charles  Darnay,  “to  be- 
long to  this  world  again.” 

I don’t  wonder  at  it;  it’s  not  so  long  since  you  were 
pretty  far  advanced  on  your  way  to  another.  You  speak 
faintly.” 

“ I begin  to  think  I am  faint.” 

“Then  why  the  devil  don’t  you  dine?  I dined,  my- 
self, while  those  numskulls  were  deliberating  which  world 
you  should  belong  to— this,  or  some  other.  Let  me  show 
you  the  nearest  tavern  to  dine  well  at.” 

Drawing  his  arm  through  his  own,  he  took  him  down 
Ludgate-hill  to  Fleet-street,  and  so,  up  a covered  way,  into 
a tavern.  Here,  they  were  shown  into  a little  room,  where 
Charles  Darnay  was  soon  recruiting  his  strength  with  a 
good  plain  dinner  and  good  wine : while  Carton  sat  oppo- 
site to  him  at  the  sane  table,  with  his  separate  bottle  of  port 
before  him,  and  his  fully  half-insolent  manner  upon  him. 

“Do  you  feel,  yet,  that  you  belong  to  this  terrestrial 
scheme  again,  Mr.  Darnay?  ” 

“I  am  frightfully  confused  regarding  time  and  place; 
but  I am  so  far  mended  as  to  feel  that.” 

“ It  must  be  an  immense  satisfaction ! ” 

He  said  it  bitterly,  and  filled  up  his  glass  again:  which 
was  a large  one. 

“ As  to  me,  the  greatest  desire  I have,  is  to  forget  that  I 
belong  to  it.  It  has  no  good  in  it  for  me — except  wine 
like  this — nor  I for  it.  So  we  are  not  much  alike  in  that 
particular.  Indeed,  I begin  to  think  we  are  not  much  alike 
in  any  particular,  you  and  I.” 

Confused  by  the  emotion  of  the  day,  and  feeling  hisi 
being  there  with  Ihis  Double  of  coarse  deportment,  to  be! 
like  a dream,  Charles  Darnay  was  at  a loss  how  to  answer; 
finally,  answered  not  at  all. 

“Now  your  dinner  is  done,”  Carton  presfer-tly  said, 

“ why  don’t  you  call  a health,  Mr.  Darnay;  why  don’t  you 
give  your  toast?  ” > 

“ What  health?  What  toast?  ” 

“Why,  it’s  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue.  It  ouglit  to  be, 
it  must  be.  I’ll  swear  it’s  there.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


77 


Miss  Manette,  then ! ” 

Miss  Manette,  then ! 

Looking  his  companion  full  in  the  face  while  he  drank 
the  toast,  Carton  flung  his  glass  over  his  shoulder  against 
the  wall,  where  it  shivered  to  pieces;  then,  rang  the  bell, 
and  ordered  in  another 

''  ThaVs  a fair  young  lady  to  hand  to  a coach  in  the  dark, 
Mr.  Darnay ! he  said,  filling  his  new  goblet. 

A slight  frown  and  a laconic  Yes,’^  were  the  answer. 
That’s  a fair  young  lady  to  be  pitied  by  and  wept  for 
by ! How  does  it  feel?  Is  it  worth  being  tried  for  one’s 
life,  to  be  the  object  of  such  sympathy  and  compassion, 
Mr.  Darnay?  ” 

Again  Darnay  answered  not  a word. 

; She  was  mightily  pleased  to  have  your  message,  when 
r gave  it  her.  Hot  that  she  showed  she  was  pleased,  but 
[ suppose  she  was.” 

The  allusion  served  as  a timely  reminder  to  Darnay  that 
uhis  disagreeable  companion  had,  of  his  own  free  will,  as- 
'jisted  him  in  the  strait  of  the  day.  He  turned  the  dialogue 
]0  that  point,  and  thanked  him  for  it. 

I ‘‘I  neither  want  any  thanks,  nor  merit  any,”  was  the 
careless  rejoinder.  ''It  was  nothing  to  do,  in  the  first 
dace;  and  I don’t  know  why  I did  it,  in  the  second.  Mr. 
Darnay,  let  me  ask  you  a question.” 

" Willingly,  and  a small  return  for  your  good  offices.” 
"Do  you  think  I particularly  like  you?  ” 

"Really,  Mr.  Carton,”  returned  the  other,  oddly  discon- 
certed, "I  have  not  asked  myself  the  question.” 

"But  ask  yourself  the  question  now  ” 

" You  have  acted  as  if  you  do;  but  I don’t  think  you 
lo.” 


I don’t  think  I do,”  said  Carton  "I  begin  to  have  a 
^ery  good  opinion  of  your  understanding.” 

"nevertheless,”  pursued  Darnay,  rising  to  ring  the  bell, 
P there  is  nothing  in  that,  I hope,  to  prevent  my  calling  the 
|eckoning,  ‘and  our  parting  without  ill-blood  on  either  side.” 
Carton  rejoining,  " Nothing  in  life ! ” Darnay  rang.  " Do 
'ou  call  the  whole  reckoning?  ” said  Carton.  On  his  an- 
wering  in  the  affirmative,  " Then  bring  me  another  pint  of 
his  same  wine,  drawer,  and  come  and  wake  me  at  ten.” 
The  bill  being  paid,  Charles  Darnay  rose  and  wished 
urn  good  night.  Without  returning  the  wish.  Carton  rose 


78 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


too,  with  something  of  a threat  of  defiance  in  his  manner, 
and  said,  A last  word,  Mr.  Darnay : you  think  I am 
drunk? 

think  you  have  been  drinking,  Mr.  Carton.” 

‘‘Think?  You  know  I have  been  drinking.” 

“ Since  I must  say  so,  I know  it.” 

“ Then  you  shall  likewise  know  why.  I am  a disappointed 
drudge,  sir.  I care  for  no  man  on  earth,  and  no  man  on 
earth  cares  for  me.” 

“Much  to  be  regretted.  You  might  have  used  your 
talents  better.” 

“May  be  so,  Mr.  Darnay;  may  be  not.  Don’t  let  your 
sober  face  elate  you,  however;  you  don’t  know  what  it  may 
come  to.  Good  night ! ” 

When  he  was  left  alone,  this  strange  being  took  up  a 
candle,  went  to  a glass  that  hung  against  the  wall,  and  sur- 
veyed himself  minutely  in  it. 

“Do  you  particularly  like  the  man?”  he  muttered,  at 
his  own  image;  “why  should  you  particularly  like  a man 
who  resembles  you?  There  is  nothing  in  you  to  like;  you 
know  that.  Ah,  confound  you ! What  a change  you  have 
made  in  yourself ! A good  reason  for  taking  to  a man,  that 
he  shows  you  what  you  have  fallen  away  from,  and  whatj 
you  might  have  been ! Change  places  with  him,  and  would 
you  have  been  looked  at  by  those  blue  eyes  as  he  was,  and 
commiserated  by  that  agitated  face  as  he  was?  Come  on, 
and  have  it  out  in  plain  words!  You  hate  the  fellow.” 

He  resorted  to  his  pint  of  wine  for  consolation,  drank  it 
all  in  a few  minutes,  and  fell  asleep  on  his  arms,  with  his 
hair  straggling  over  the  table,  and  a long  winding-sheet  in 
the  candle  dripping  down  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  JACKAL. 

Those  were  drinking  days,  and  most  men  drank  hard. 
So  very  great  is  the  improvement  Time  has  brought  about 
in  such  habits,  that  a moderate  statement  of  the  quantit} 
of  wine  and  punch  which  one  man  would  swallow  in  tin 
course  of  a night,  without  any  detriment  to  his  reputatioi 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


79 


as  a perfect  gentleman,  would  seem,  in  these  days,  a ridic- 
ulous exaggeration.  The  learned  profession  of  the  law  was 
certainly  not  behind  any  other  learned  profession  in  its 
Bacchanalian  propensities;  neither  was  Mr.  Stryver,  al- 
ready fast  shouldering  his  way  to  a large  and  lucrative 
practice,  behind  his  compeers  in  this  particular,  any  more 
^than  in  the  drier  parts  of  the  legal  race. 

A favourite  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  eke  at  the  Sessions, 
Mr.  Stryver  had  begun  cautiously  to  hew  away  the  lower 
staves  of  the  ladder  on  which  he  mounted.  Sessions  and 
Old  Bailey  had  now  to  summon  their  favourite,  specially, 
to  their  longing  arms;  and  shouldering  itself  towards  the 
visage  of  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  in  the  Court  of  King  s 
Bench,  the  florid  countenance  of  Mr.  Stryver  might  be  daily 
seen,  bursting  out  of  the  bed  of  wigs,  like  a great  sunflower 
pushing  its  way  at  the  sun  from  among  a rank  garden-full 
of  flaring  companions. 

^ It  had  once  been  noted  at  the  Bar,  that  while  Mr. 
Stryver  was  a glib  man,  and  an  unscrupulous,  and  a ready, 
and  a bold,  he  had  not  that  faculty  of  extracting  the  es- 
sence from  a heap  of  statements,  which  is  among  the  most 
striking  and  necessary  of  the  advocate’s  accomplishments. 
But,  a remarkable  improvement  came  upon  him  as  to  this, 
rhe  more  business  he  got,  the  greater  his  power  seemed 
to  grow  of  getting  at  its  pith  and  marrow;  and  however 
late  at  night  he  sat  carousing  with  Sydney  Carton,  he  al- 
ways had  his  points  at  his  fingers’  ends  in  the  morning. 

^ Sydney  Carton,  idlest  and  most  unpromising  of  men,  was 
stryver’s  great  ally.  What  the  two  drank  together,  be- 
Aveen  Hilary  Term  and  Michaelmas,  might  have  floated  a 
un^s  ship.  Stryver  never  had  a case  in  hand,  anywhere, 
)ut  Carton  was  there,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  staring 
it  the  ceiling  of  the  court;  they  went  the  same  Circuit,  and 
!ven  there  they  prolonged  their  usual  orgies  late  into  the 
light,  and  Carton  Was  rumoured  to  be  seen  at  broad  day, 
roing  home  stealthily  and  unsteadily  to  his  lodgings,  like 
i dissipated  cat.  At  last,  it  began  to  get  about,  among 
uch  as  were  interested  in  the  matter,  that  although  Sydney 
^arton  would  never  be  a lion,  he  was  an  amazingly  good 
aekal,  and  that  he  rendered  suit  and  service  to  Stryver  in 
hat  humble  capacity. 

Ten  o clock,  sir,”  said  the  man  at  the  tavern,  whom  he 
lad  charged  to  wake  him— “ten  o’clock,  sir.” 


80 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Whafs  the  matter? 

Ten  o’clock,  sir. 

What  do  you  mean?  Ten  o’clock  at  night? 

Yes,  sir.  Your  honour  told  me  to  call  you.” 

^‘Oh!  I remember.  Very  well,  very  well.” 

After  a few  dull  efforts  to  get  to  sleep  again,  which  the 
man  dexterously  combated  by  stirring  the  fire  continuously 
for  five  minutes,  he  got  up,  tossed  his  hat  on,  and  walked 
out.  He  turned  into  the  Temple,  and,  having  revived 
himself ^by  twice  pacing  the  pavements  of  King’s  Bench- 
walk  and  Paper-buildings,  turned  into  the  Stryver  cham- 
bers. 

The  Stryver  clerk,  who  never  assisted  at  these  confer- 
ences, had  gone  home,  and  the  Stryver  principal  opened 
the  door.  He  had  his  slippers  on,  and  a loose  bed-gown, 
and  his  throat  was  bare  for  his  greater  ease.  He  had  that 
rather  wild,  strained,  seared  marking  about  the  eyes,  which 
may  be  observed  in  all  free  livers  of  his  class,  from  the 
portrait  of  Jeffries  downward,  and  which  can  be  traced, 
under  various  disguises  of  Art,  through  the  portraits  of 
every  Drinking  Age. 

You  are  a little  late.  Memory,”  said  Stryver. 

About  the  usual  time;  it  may  be  a quarter  of  an  hour 
later.” 

They  went  into  a dingy  room  lined  with  books  and  lit- 
tered with  papers,  where  there  was  a blazing  fire.  A ket- 
tle steamed  upon  the  hob,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  wreck  of 
papers  a table  shone,  with  plenty  of  wine  upon  it,  and 
brandy,  and  rum,  and  sugar,  and  lemons. 

You  have  had  your  bottle,  I perceive,  Sydney.” 

Two  to-night,  I think.  I have  been  dining  with  the 
day’s  client;  or  seeing  him  dine — it’s  all  one!  ” 

‘^That  was  a rare  point,  Sydney,  that  you  brought  to 
bear  upon  the  identification.  How  did  you  come  by  it? 
When  did  it  strike  you?  ” ^ 

thought  he  was  rather  a handsome  fellow,  and  I 
thought  I should  have  been  much  the  same  sort  of  fellow, 
if  I had  had  any  luck.” 

Mr.  Stryver  laughed  till  he  shook  his  precocious  paunch. 

You  and  your  luck,  Sydney ! Get  to  work,  get  to  work.” 
Sullenly  enough,  the  jackal  loosened  his  dress,  went  into 
an  adjoining  room,  and  came  back  with  a large  jug  of  cold 
water,  a basin,  and  a towel  or  two.  Steeping  the  towels  in 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


81 


the  water,  and  partially  wringing  them  out,  he  folded  them 
on  his  head  in  a manner  hideous  to  behold,  sat  down  at  the 
table,  and  said,  ^^ISTow  I am  ready! 

Not  much  boiling  down  to  be  done  to-night,  Memory,” 
said  Mr.  Stryver,  gaily,  as  he  looked  among  his  papers. 

“ How  much?  ” 

“Only  two  sets  of  them.” 

“Give  me  the  worst  first.” 

“ There  they  are,  Sydney.  Fire  away ! ” 

The  lion  then  composed  himself  on  his  back  on  a sofa  on 
one  side  of  the  drinking- table,  while  the  jackal  sat  at  his 
own  paper-bestrewn  table  proper;  on  the  other  side  of  it, 
with  the  bottles  and  glasses  ready  to  his  hand.  Both  re- 
sorted to  the  drinking-table  without  stint,  but  each  in  a 
different  way;  the  lion  for  the  most  part  reclining  with  his 
hands  in  his  waistband,  looking  at  the  fire,  or  occasionally 
flirting  with  some  lighter  document;  the  jackal,  with 
knitted  brows  and  intent  face,  so  deep  in  his>task,  that  his 
eyes  did  not  even  follow  the  hand  he  stretched  ^ut  for  his 
glass — which  often  groped  about,  for  a minute  or  more,  be- 
fore it  found  the  glass  for  his  lips.  Two  or  three  times, 
the  matter  in  hand  became  so  knotty,  that  the  jackal  found 
it  imperative  on  him  to  get  up,  and  steep  his  towels  anew. 
From  these  pilgrimages  to  the  jug  and  basin,  he  returned 
with  such  eccentricities  of  damp  head-gear  as  no  words  can 
describe;  which  were  made  the  more  ludicrous  by  his  anx- 
ious gravity. 

At  length  the  jackal  had  got  together  a compact  repast 
for  the  lion  and  proceeded  to  offer  it  to  him.  The  lion 
took  it  with  care  and  caution,  made  his  selections  from 
it,  and  his  remarks  upon  it,  and  the  jackal  assisted  both. 
When  the  repast  was  fully  discussed,  the  lion  put  his 
hands  in  his  waistband  again,  and  lay  down  to  meditate. 
The  jackal  then  invigorated  himself  with  a bumper  for  his 
throttle,  and  a fresh  application  to  his  head,  and  applied 
himself  to  the  collection  of  a second  meal;  this  was  admin- 
istered to  the  lion  in  the  same  manner,  and  was  not  dis- 
posed of  until  the  clocks  struck  three  in  the  morning. 

“And  now  we  have  done,  Sydney,  fill  a bumper  of 
punch,”  said  Mr.  Stryver. 

The  jackal  removed  the  towels  from  his  head,  which  had 
been  steaming  again,  shook  himself,  yawned,  shivered,  and 
complied. 

6 


82 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


“ You  were  very  sound,  Sydney,  in  the  matter  of  those 
crown  witnesses  to-day.  Every  question  told.” 

“I  always  am  sound;  am  I not? ” 

“ I don’t  gainsay  it.  What  has  roughened  your  temper? 
Put  some  punch  to  it  and  smooth  it  again.” 

With  a deprecatory  grunt,  the  jackal  again  complied. 
“The  old  Sydney  Carton  of  old  Shrewsbury  School,”  said 
Stryver,  nodding  his  head  over  him  as  he  reviewed  him  in 
the  present  and  the  past,  “ the  old  seesaw  Sydney.  Up 
one  minute  and  down  the  next;  now  in  spirits  and  now  in 
despondency ! ” 

“Ah!”  returned  the  other,  sighing:  “yes!  The  same 
Sydney,  with  the  same  luck.  Even  then,  I did  exercises 
for  other  boys,  and  seldom  did  my  own.” 

“ And  why  not?  ” 

“God  knows.  It  was  my  way,  I suppose.” 

He  sat,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs 
stretched  outjpefore  him,  looking  at  the  fire. 

“ Cartom^'  said  his  friend,  squaring  himself  at  him  with 
a bullying"air,  as  if  the  fire-grate  had  been  the  furnace  in 
which  sustained  endeavour  was  forged,  and  the  one  deli- 
cate thing  to  be  done  for  the  old  Sydney  Carton  of  old 
Shrewsbury  School  was  to  shoulder  him  into  it,  “ your  way 
is,  and  always  was,  a lame  way.  You  summon  no  energy 
and  purpose.  Look  at  me.” 

“ Oh,  botheration ! ” returned  Sydney,  with  a lighter  and 
more  good-humoured  laugh,  “don’t  you  be  moral!  ” 

“How  have  I done  what  I have  done?”  said  Stryver; 

■ “ how  do  I do  what  I do?  ” 

“ Partly  through  paying  me  to  help  you,  I suppose.  But 
it’s  not  worth  your  while  to  apostrophise  me,  or  the  air, 
about  it;  what  you  want  to  do,  you  do.  You  were  always 
in  the  front  rank,  and  I was  always  behind.” 

“ I had  to  get  into  the  front  rank;  I was  not  born  there, 
was  I?  ” 

“ I was  not  present  at  the  ceremony ; but  my  opinion  is 
you  were,”  said  Carton.  At  this,  he  laughed  again,  and 
they  both  laughed. 

“ Before  Shrewsbury,  and  at  Shrewsbury,  and  ever  since 
Shrewsbury,”  pursued  Carton,  “you  have  fallen  into  your 
rank,  and  I have  fallen  into  mine.  Even  when  we  were 
fellow-students  in  the  Student-Quarter  of  Paris,  picking 
up  French,  and  French  law,  and  other  French  crumbs  that 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


83 


we  didn’t  get  much  good  of,  you  were  always  somewhere, 
aud  I was  always — nowhere.” 

And  whose  fault  was  that?  ” 

‘‘Upon  my  soul,  I am  not  sure  that  it  was  not  yours. 
You  were  always  driving  and  driving  and  shouldering  and 
passing,  to  that  restless  degree  that  I had  no  chance  for 
my  life  but  in  rust  and  repose.  It’s  a gloomy  thing,  how- 
ever, to  talk  about  one’s  own  past,  with  the  day  breaking. 
Turn  me  in  some  other  direction  before  I go.” 

“Well  then!  Pledge  ^ne  to  the  pretty  witness,”  said 
Stryver,  holding  up  his  glass.  “ Are  you  turned  in  a pleas- 
ant direction?  ” 

Apparently  not,  for  he  became  gloomy  again. 

“Pretty  witness,”  he  muttered,  looking  down  into  his 
glass.  “ I have  had  enough  of  witnesses  to-day  and  to- 
night; who’s  your  pretty  witness?  ” 

“The  picturesque  doctor’s  daughter.  Miss  Manette.” 

“ She  pretty?  ” 

“ Is  she  not?  ” 

“No.” 

“ Why,  man  alive,  she  was  the  admiration  of  the  whole 
Court ! ” 

“ Kot  the  admiration  of  the  whole  Court ! Who  made 
the  Old  Bailey  a iudge  of  beauty?  She  was  a golden- 
haired doll ! ” 

“Do  you  know,  Sydney,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  looking  at 
him  with  sharp  eyes,  and  slowly  drawing  a hand  across 
his  florid  face : “ do  you  know,  I rather  thought,  at  the 
time,  that  you  sympathised  with  the  golden-haired  doll,  and 
were  quick  to  see  what  happened  to  the  golden-haired 
doll?  ” 

“ Quick  to  see  what  happened ! If  a girl,  doll  or  no  doll, 
swoons  within  a yard  or  two  of  a man’s  nose,  he  can  see  it 
without  a perspective-glass.  I pledge  you,  but  I deny  the 
beauty.  And  now  I’ll  have  no  more  drink;  I’ll  get  to 
bed.” 

When  his  host  followed  him  out  on  the  staircase  with  a 
candle,  to  light  him  down  the  stairs,  the  day  was  coldly 
looking  in  through  its  grimy  windows.  When  he  got  out 
of  the  house,  the  air  was  cold  and  sad,  the  dull  sky  over- 
cast, the  river  dark  and  dim,  the  whole  scene  like  a lifeless 
desert.  And  wreaths  of  dust  were  spinning  round  and 
round  before  the  morning  blast,  as  if  the  desert-sand  had 


84 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


risen  far  away,  and  the  first  spray  of  it  in  its  advance  had 
begun  to  overwhelm  the  city. 

Waste  forces  within  him,  and  a desert  all  around,  this 
man  stood  still  on  his  way  across  a silent  terrace,  and  saw 
for  a moment,  lying  in  the  wilderness  before  him,  a mirage 
of  honourable  ambition,  self-denial,  and  perseverance.  In 
the  fair  city  of  this__vision,  there  were  airy  galleries  from 
which  the  rpVes'  and  graces  looked  upon  him,  gardens  in 
which  the  fruits  of  life  hung  ripening,  waters  of  Hope  that 
sparkled  in  his  sight.  A moment,  and  it  was  gone.  Climb- 
ing to  a high  chamber  in  a well  of  houses,  he  threw  him- 
self down  in  his  clothes  on  a neglected  bed,  and  its  pillow 
was  wet  with  wasted  tears. 

Sadly,  sadly,  the  sun  rose;  it  rose  upon  no  sadder  sight 
than  the  man  of  good  abilities  and  good  emotions,  incapa- 
ble of  their  directed  exercise,  incapable  of  his  own  help 
and  his  own  happiness,  sensible  of  the  blight  on  him,  and 
resigning  himself  to  let  it  eat  him  away. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HUNDREDS  OP  PEOPLE. 

The  quiet  lodgings  of  Doctor  Manette  were  in  a quiet 
street-corner  not  far  from  Soho-square.  On  the  afternoon 
of  a certain  fine  Sunday  when  the  waves  of  four  months 
had  rolled  over  the  trial  for  treason,  and  carried  it,  as  to 
the  public  interest  and  memory,  far  out  to  sea,  Mr.  Jarvis 
Lorry  walked  along  the  sunny  streets  from  Clerkenwell 
where  he  lived,  on  his  way  to  dine  with  the  Doctor.  After 
several  relapses  into  business-absorption,  Mr.  Lorry  had 
become  the  Doctor’s  friend,  and  the  quiet  street-corner  was 
the  sunny  part  of  his  life. 

On  this  certain  fine  Sunday,  Mr.  Lorry  walked  towards 
Soho,  early  in  the  afternoon,  for  three  reasons  of  habit. 
Firstly,  because,  on  fine  Sundays,  he  often  walked  out, 
before  dinner,  with  the  Doctor  and  Lucie;  secondly,  be- 
cause, on  unfavourable  Sundays,  he  was  accustomed  to  be 
with  them  as  the  family  friend,  talking,  reading,  looking 
out  of  window,  and  generally  getting  through  the  day; 
thirdly,  because  he  happened  to  have  his  own  little  shrewd 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


85 


ioubts  to  solve,  and  knew  how  the  ways  of  the  Doctor’s 
household  pointed  to  that  time  as  a likely  time  for  solving 
chem. 

A quainter  corner  than  the  corner  where  the  Doctor 
lived,  was  not  to  be  found  in  London.  There  was  no  way 
i^hrough  it,  and  the  front  windows  of  the  Doctor’s  lodgings 
3ommanded  a pleasant  little  vista  of  street  that  had  a con- 
genial air  of  retirement  on  it.  There  were  few  buildings 
'.hen,  north  of  the  Oxford-road,  and  forest-trees  flourished, 
ind  wild  flowers  grew,  and  the  hawthorn  blossomed,  in  the 
low  vanished  fields.  As  a consequence,  country  airs  cir- 
iulated  in  Soho  with  vigorous  freedom,  instead  of  languish- 
ng  into  the  parish  like  stray  paupers  without  a settlement; 
ind  there  was  many  a good  south  wall,  not  far  off,  on 
vhich  the  peaches  ripened  in  their  season. 

The  summer  light  struck  into  the  corner  brilliantly  in 
;he  earlier  part  of  the  day;  but,  when  the  streets  grew  hot, 
ihe  corner  was  in  shadow,  though  not  in  shadow  so  remote 
lut  that  you  could  see  beyond  it  into  a glare  of  brightness, 
it  was  a cool  spot,  staid  but  cheerful,  a wonderful  place  for 
jchoes,  and  a very  harbour  from  the  raging  streets. 

There  ought  to  have  been  a tranquil  bark  in  such  an 
inchorage,  and  there  was.  The  Doctor  occupied  two  floors 
)f  a large  still  house,  where  several  callings  purported  to 
)e  pursued  by  day,  but  whereof  little  was  audible  any  day, 
ind  which  was  shunned  by  all  of  them  at  night,  In  a 
milding  at  the  back,  attainable  by  a court-yard  where  a 
)lane-tree  rustled  its  green  leaves,  church-organs  claimed 
;o  be  made,  and  silver  to  be  chased,  and  likewise  gold  to 
)e  beaten  by  some  mysterious  giant  who  had  a golden  arm 
itarting  out  of  the  wall  of  the  front  hall — as  if  he  had 
>eaten  himself  precious,  and  menaced  a similar  conversion 
)f  all  visitors.  Very  little  of  these  trades,  or  of  a lonely 
o^er  rumoured  to  live  upstairs,  or  of  a dim  coach-trim- 
ning  maker  asserted  to  have  a counting-house  below,  was 
wer  heard  or  seen.  Occasionally,  a stray  workman  put- 
ing  his  coat  on,  traversed  the  hall,  or  a stranger  peered 
Lout  there,  or  a distant  clink  was  heard  across  the  court- 
yard, or  a thump  from  the  golden  giant.  These,  however, 
vere  only  the  exceptions  required  to  prove  the  rule  that 
he  sparrows  in  the  plane-tree  behind  the  house,  and  the 
choes  in  the  corner  before  it,  had  their  own  way  from 
hiiiday  morning  unto  Saturday  night. 


86 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Doctor  Manette  received  such  patients  here  as  his  old 
reputation,  and  its  revival  in  the  floating  whispers  of  his 
story,  brought  him.  His  scientific  knowledge,  and  his 
vigilance  and  skill  in  conducting  ingenious  experiments, 
brought  him  otherwise  into  moderate  request,  and  he  earned 
as  much  as  he  wanted. 

These  things  were  within  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry’s  knowledge, 
thoughts,  and  notice,  when  he  rang  the  door-bell  of  the 
tranquil  house  in  the  corner,  on  the  fine  Sunday  afternoon. 

Doctor  Manette  at  home?  ” 

Expected  home. 

Miss  Lucie  at  home?  ” 

Expected  home. 

Miss  Pross  at  home?  ” 

Possibly  at  home,  but  of  a certainty  impossible  for  hand- 
maid to  anticipate  intentions  of  Miss  Pross,  as  to  admission 
or  denial  of  the  fact. 

As  I am  at  home  myself,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  ‘^I’ll  go  up- 
stairs.” 

Although  the  Doctor’s  daughter  had  known  nothing  of 
the  country  of  her  birth,  she  appeared  to  have  innately  de- 
rived from  it  that  ability  to  make  much  of  little  means, 
which  is  one  of  its  most  useful  and  most  agreeable  charac- 
teristics. Simple  as  the  furniture  was,  it  was  set  off  by  so 
many  little  adornments,  of  no  value  but  for  their  taste  and 
fancy,  that  its  effect  was  delightful.  The  disposition  of 
everything  in  the  rooms,  from  the  largest  object  to  the 
least;  the  arrangement  of  colours,  the  elegant  variety  and 
contrast  obtained  by  thrift  in  trifles,  by  delicate  hands, 
clear  eyes,  and  good  sense;  were  at  once  so  pleasant  in 
themselves,  and  so  expressive  of  their  originator,  that,  as 
Mr.  Lorry  stood  looking  about  him,  the  very  chairs  and 
tables  seemed  to  ask  him,  with  something  of  that  peculiar 
expression  which  he  knew  so  well  by  this  time,  whether 
he  approved? 

There  were  three  rooms  on  a floor,  and,  the  doors  by 
which  they  communicated  being  put  open  that  the  air  might 
pass  freely  through  them  all,  Mr.  Lorry,  smilingly  observ- 
ant of  that  fanciful  resemblance  which  he  detected  all 
around  him,  walked  from  one  to  another.  The  first  was 
the  best  room,  and  in  it  were  Lucie’s  birds,  and  flowers, 
and  books,  and  desk,  and  work-table,  and  box  of  water- 
colours; the  second  was  the  Doctor’s  consulting-room,  used 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


87 


also  as  the  dining-room;  the  third,  changingly  speckled  by 
the  rustle  of  the  plane-tree  in  the  yard,  was  the  Doctor’s 
bed-room,  and  there,  in  a corner,  stood  the  disused  shoe- 
maker’s bench  and  tray  of  tools,  much  as  it  had  stood  on 
the  fifth  floor  of  the  dismal  house  by  the  wine-shop,  in  the 
suburb  of  Saint  Antoine  in  Paris. 

‘‘I  wonder,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  pausing  in  his  looking 
about,  that  he  keeps  that  reminder  of  his  sufferings  about 
him ! ” 

• And  why  wonder  at  that?  ” was  the  abrupt  inquiry  that 
made  him  start. 

It  proceeded  from  Miss  Pross,  the  wild  red  woman, 
strong  of  hand,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  first  made  at 
the  Eoyal  George  Hotel  at  Dover,  and  had  since  improved. 

^‘1  should  have  thought ” Mr.  Lorry  began. 

‘^Pooh!  You’d  have  thought!”  said  Miss  Pross;  and 
Mr.  Lorry  left  off. 

^HIow  do  you  do?”  inquired  that  lady  then — sharply, 
and  yet  as  if  to  express  that  she  bore  him  no  malice. 

“I  am  pretty  well,  I thank  you,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry, 
with  meekness;  ^^how  are  you?  ” 

‘‘Nothing  to  boast  of,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

“ Indeed? ” 

“ Ah ! indeed ! ” said  Miss  Pross.  “ I am  very  much  put 
out  about  my  Ladybird.” 

“ Indeed? ” 

“For  gracious  sake  say  something  else  besides  ‘ indeed,’ 
or  you’ll  fidget  me  to  death,”  said  Miss  Pross:  whose 
character  (dissociated  from  stature)  was  shortness. 

“Keally,  then?”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  an  amendment. 

“Eeally,  is  bad  enough,”  returned  Miss  Pross,  “but  bet- 
ter. Yes,  I am  very  much  put  out.” 

“May  I ask  the  cause?  ” 

“ I don’t  want  dozens  of  people  who  are  not  at  all  worthy 
of  Ladybird,  to  come  here  looking  after  her,”  said  Miss 
Pross. 

“Do  dozens  come  for  that  purpose? ” 

“Hundreds,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

It  was  characteristic  of  this  lady  (as  of  some  other  peo- 
ple before  her  time  and  since)  that  whenever  her  original 
proposition  was  questioned,  she  exaggerated  it. 

“ Dear  m ;!  ” said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  the  safest  re^aark  he 
could  think  of. 


88 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


“ I have  lived  with  the  darliug — or  the  darling  has  lived 
with  me,  and  paid  me  for  it;  which  she  certainly  should 
never  have  done,  you  may  take  your  affidavit,  if  I could 
have  afforded  to  keep  either  myself  or  her  for  nothing — 
since  she  was  ten  years  old.  And  it’s  really  very  hard,” 
said  Miss  Pross. 

Not  seeing  with  precision  what  was  very  hard,  Mr.  Lorry 
shook  his  head;  using  that  important  part  of  himself  as  a 
sort  of  fairy  cloak  that  would  fit  anything. 

All  sorts  of  people  who  are  not  in  the  least  degree 
worthy  of  the  pet,  are  always  turning  up,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

When  you  began  it ” 

began  it.  Miss  Pross?” 

Didn’t  you?  Who  brought  her  father  to  life?  ” 

Oh ! If  that  was  beginning  it ” said  Mr.  Lorry. 

^‘It  wasn’t  ending  it,  I suppose?  I say,  when  you  be- 
gan it,  it  was  hard  enough;  not  that  I have  any  fault  to 
find  with  Doctor  Manette,  except  that  he  is  not  worthy  of 
such  a daughter,  which  is  no  imputation  on  him,  for  it  was 
not  to  be  expected  that  anybody  should  be,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances. But  it  really  is  doubly  and  trebly  hard  to 
have  crowds  and  multitudes  of  people  turning  up  after  him 
(I  could  have  forgiven  him),  to  take  Ladybird’s  affections 
away  from  me.” 

Mr.  Lorry  knew  Miss  Pross  to  be  very  jealous,  but  he 
also  knew  her  by  this  time  to  be,  beneath  the  surface  of  her 
eccentricity,  one  of  those  unselfish  creatures — found  only 
among  women — who  will,  for  pure  love  and  admiration, 
bind  themselves  willing  slaves,  to  youth  when  they  have 
lost  it,  to  beauty  that  they  never  had,  to  accomplishments 
that  they  were  never  fortunate  enough  to  gain,  to  bright 
hopes  that  never  shone  upon  their  own  sombre  lives.  He 
knew  enough  of  the  world  to  know  that  there  is  nothing  in 
it  better  than  the  faithful  service  of  the  heart;  so  rendered 
and  so  free  from  any  mercenary  taint,  he  had  such  an  ex- 
alted respect  for  it,  that  in  the  retributive  arrangements 
made  by  his  own  mind — we  all  make  such  arrangements, 
more  or  less — he  stationed  Miss  Pross  much  nearer  to  the 
lower  Angels  than  many  ladies  immeasurably  better  got  up 
both  by  Nature  and  Art,  who  had  balances  at  Tellson’s. 

There  never  was,  nor  will  be,  but  one  man  worthy  of 
Ladybird,”  said  Miss  Pross;  ^^and  that  was  my  brother 
Solomon,  if  he  hadn’t  made  a mistake  in  life.”  ' 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


89 


Here  again:  Mr.  Lorry’s  inquiries  into  Miss  Pross’s  per- 
sonal history  had  established  the  fact  that  her  brother  Sol- 
omon was  a heartless  scoundrel  who  had  stripped  her  of 
everything  she  possessed,  as  a stake  to  speculate  with,  and 
had  abandoned  her  in  her  poverty  for  evermore,  with  no 
touch  of  compunction.  Miss  Pross’s  fidelity  of  belief  in 
Solomon  (deducting  a mere  trifle  for  this  slight  mistake) 
was  quite  a serious  matter  with  Mr.  Lorry,  and  had  its 
weight  in  his  good  opinion  of  her. 

As  we  happen  to  be  alone  for  the  moment,  and  are  both 
people  of  business,”  he  said,  when  they  had  got  back  to 
the  drawing-room  and  had  sat  down  there  in  friendly  rela- 
tions, let  me  ask  you — does  the  Doctor,  in  talking  with 
Lucie,  never  refer  to  the  shoemaking  time,  yet?  ” 

Never.” 

And  yet  keeps  that  bench  and  those  tools  beside  him?  ” 
Ah ! ” returned  Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  head.  But  I 
don’t  say  he  don’t  refer  to  it  within  himself.” 

“ Do  you  believe  that  he  thinks  of  it  much?  ” 

‘‘I  do,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

^^Do  you  ipaagine ” Mr.  Lorry  had  begun,  when  Miss 

Pross  took  him  up  short  with : 

Never  imagine  anything.  Have  no  imagination  at 
all.  ” 

^‘1  stand  corrected;  do  you  suppose — you  go  so  far  as  to 
suppose,  sometimes?” 

^^Now  and  then,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

^^Do  you  suppose,”  Mr.  Lorry  went  on,  with  a laughing 
twinkle  in  his  bright  eye,  as  it  looked  kindly  at  her,  that 
Doctor  Manette  has  any  theory  of  his  own,  preserved 
through  all  those  years,  relative  to  the  cause  of  his  being 
30  oppressed;  perhaps,  even  to  the  name  of  his  oppressor?  ” 
I don’t  suppose  anything  about  it  but  what  Ladybird 
tells  me.” 

“ And  that  is ? ” 

“That  she  thinks  he  has.” 

“Now  don’t  be  angry  at  my  asking  all  these  questions; 
because  I am  a mere  dull  man  of  business,  and  you  are  a 
woman  of  business.” 

“Dull?”  Miss  Pross  inquired,  with  placidity. 

Bather  wishing  his  modest  adjective  away,  Mr.  Lorry  re- 
plied, “No,  no,  no.  Surely  not.  To  return  to  business: — 
ts  it  not  remarkable  that  Doctor  Manette,  unquestionably 


90 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


innocent  of  any  crime  as  we  are  all  well  assured  he  is, 
should  never  touch  upon  that  question?  I will  not  say 
with  me,  though  he  had  business  relations  with  me  many 
years  ago,  and  we  are  now  intimate;  I will  say  with  the 
fair  daughter  to  whom  he  is  so  devotedly  attached,  and 
who  is  so  devotedly  attached  to  him?  Believe  me,  Miss 
Pross,  I don’t  approach  the  topic  with  you,  out  of  curiosity, 
but  out  of  zealous  interest.” 

“Well!  To  the  best  of  my  understanding,  and  bad’s 
the  best,  you’ll  tell  me,”  said  Miss  Pross,  softened  by  the 
tone  of  the  apology,  “he  is  afraid  of  the  whole  subject.” 

“Afraid?” 

“It’s  plain  enough,  I should  think,  why  he  may  be. 
It’s  a dreadful  remembrance.  Besides  that,  his  loss  of 
himself  grew  out  of  it.  Not  knowing  how  he  lost  himself, 
or  how  he  recovered  himself,  he  may  never  feel  certain  of 
not  losing  himself  again.  That  alone  wouldn’t  make  the 
subject  pleasant,  I should  think.” 

It  was  a profounder  remark  than  Mr.  Lorry  had  looked 
for.  “True,”  said  he,  “and  fearful  to  reflect  upon.  Yet, 
a doubt  lurks  in  my  mind.  Miss  Pross,  whether  it  is  good 
for  Doctor  Manette  to  have  that  suppression  always  shut 
up  within  him.  Indeed,  it  is  this  doubt  and  the  uneasi- 
ness it  sometimes  causes  me  that  has  led  me  to  our  present 
confidence.” 

“Can’t  be  helped,”  said  Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  head. 
“ Touch  that  string,  and  he  instantly  changes  for  the  worse. 
Better  leave  it  alone.  In  short,  must  leave.it  alone,  like 
or  no  like.  Sometimes,  he  gets  up  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  and  will  be  heard,  by  us  overhead  there,  walking  up 
and  down,  walking  up  and  down,  in  his  room.  Ladybird 
has  learnt  to  know  then  that  his  mind  is  walking  up  and 
down,  walking  up  and  down,  in  his  old  prison.  She  hur- 
ries to  him,  and  they  go  on  together,  walking  up  and  down, 
walking  up  and  down,  until  he  is  composed.  But  he  never 
says  a word  of  the  true  reason  of  his  restlessness,  to  her, 
and  she  finds  it  best  not  to  hint  at  it  to  him.  In  silence 
they  go  walking  up  and  down  together,  walking  up  and 
down  together,  till  her  love  and  company  have  brought 
him  to  himself.” 

Notwithstanding  Miss  Pross’s  denial  of  her  own  imagin- 
ation, there  was  a perception  of  the  pain  of  being  monoto- 
nously haunted  by  one  sad  idea,  in  her  repetition  of  the. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


91 


phrase,  walking  up  and  down,  which  testified  to  her  pos- 
sessing such  a thing. 

The  corner  has  been  mentioned  as  a wonderful  corner  for 
echoes;  it  had  begun  to  echo  so  resoundingly  to  the  tread 
of  coming  feet,  that  it  seemed  as  though  the  very  mention 
of  that  weary  pacing  to  and  fro  had  set  it  going. 

Here  they  are ! said  Miss  Pross,  rising  to  break  up 
the  conference;  ^‘and  now  we  shall  have  hundreds  of  peo- 
ple pretty  soon ! 

It  was  such  a curious  corner  in  its  acoustical  properties, 
such  a peculiar  Ear  of  a place,  that  as  Mr.  Lorry  stood  at 
the  open  window,  looking  for  the  father  and  daughter 
whose  steps  he  heard,  he  fancied  they  would  never  ap- 
proach. I^ot  only  would  the  echoes  die  away,  as  though 
the  steps  had  gone;  but,  echoes  of  other  steps  that  never 
came  would  be  heard  in  their  stead,  and  would  die  away 
for  good  when  they  seemed  close  at  hand.  However,  father 
and  daughter  did  at  last  appear,  and  Miss  Pross  was  ready 
at  the  street  door  to  receive  them. 

Miss  Pross  was  a pleasant  sight,  albeit  wild,  and  red, 
and  grim,  taking  off  her  darling^s  bonnet  when  she  came 
up-stairs,  and  touching  it  up  with  the  enc^s  of  her  handker- 
chief, and  blowing  the  dust  off  it,  and  folding  her  mantle 
ready  for  laying  by,  and  smoothing  her  rich  hair  with  as 
much  pride  as  she  could  possibly  have  taken  in  her  own 
hair  if  she  had  been  the  vainest  and  handsomest  of  women. 
Her  darling  was  a pleasant  sight  too,  embracing  her  and 
thanking  her,  and  protesting  against  her  taking  so  much 
trouble  for  her — which  last  she  only  dared  to  do  playfully, 
or  Miss  Pross,  sorely  hurt,  would  have  retired  to  her  own 
ohamber  and  cried.  The  Doctor  was  a pleasant  sight  too, 
looking  on  at  them,  and  telling  Miss  Pross  how  she  spoilt 
Lucie,  in  accents  and  with  eyes  that  had  as  much  spoiling 
in  them  as  Miss  Pross  had,  and  would  have  had  more  if  it 
were  possible.  Mr.  Lorry  was  a pleasant  sight  too,  beam- 
ing at  all  this  in  his  little  wig,  and  thanking  his  bachelor 
stars  for  having  lighted  him  in  his  declining  years  to  a 
Home.  But,  no  Hundreds  of  people  came  to  see  the  sights, 
md  Mr.  Lorry  looked  in  vain  for  the  fulfilment  of  Miss 
Pross ’s  prediction. 

Dinner-time,  and  still  no  Hundreds  of  people.  In  the 
irrangements  of  the  little  household.  Miss  Pross  took 
5harge  of  the  lower  regions,  and  always  acquitted  herself 


92 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


marvellously.  Her  dinners,  of  a very  modest  quality,  were 
so  well-cooked  and  so  well  served,  and  so  neat  in  their  con- 
trivances, half  English  and  half  French,  that  nothing  could 
be  better.  Miss  Press’s  friendship  being  of  the  thoroughly 
practical  kind,  she  had  ravaged  Soho  and  the  adjacent 
provinces,  in  search  of  impoverished  French,  who,  tempted 
by  shillings  and  half-crowns,  would  impart  culinary  mys- 
teries to  her.  From  these  decayed  sons  and  daughters  of 
Gaul,  she  had  acquired  such  wonderful  arts,  that  the 
woman  and  girl  who  formed  the  staff  of  domestics  regarded 
her  as  quite  a Sorceress,  or  Cinderella’s  Godmother : who 
would  send  out  for  a fowl,  a rabbit,  a vegetable  or  two  from 
the  garden,  and  change  them  into  anything  she  pleased. 

On  Sundays,  Miss  Pross  dined  at  the  Doctor’s  table,  but 
on  other  days  persisted  in  taking  her  meals  at  unknown 
periods,  either  in  the  lower  regions,  or  in  her  own  room  on 
the  second  floor — a blue  chamber,  to  which  no  one  but  her 
Ladybird  ever  gained  admittance.  On  this  occasion.  Miss 
Pross,  responding  to  Ladybird’s  pleasant  face  and  pleasant 
efforts  to  please  her,  unbent  exceedingly;  so  the  dinner 
was  very  pleasant,  too. 

It  was  an  oppressive  day,  and,  after  dinner,  Lucie  pro- 
posed that  the  wine  should  be  carried  out  under  the  plane- 
tree,  and  they  should  sit  there  in  the  air.  As  everything 
turned  upon  her,  and  revolved  about  her,  they  went  out 
under  the  plane-tree,  and  she  carried  the  wine  down  for 
the  special  benefit  of  Mr.  Lorry.  She  had  installed  her- 
self, some  time  before,  as  Mr.  Lorry’s  cup-bearer;  and 
while  they  sat  under  the  plane-tree,  talking,  she  kept  his 
glass  replenished.  Mysterious  backs  and  ends  of  houses 
peeped  at  them  as  they  talked,  and  the  plane-tree  whis- 
pered to  them  in  its  own  way  above  their  heads. 

Still,  the  Hundreds  of  people  did  not  present  them- 
selves. Mr.  Darnay  presented  himself  while  they  were 
sitting  under  the  plane-tree,  but  he  was  only  One. 

Doctor  Manette  received  him  kindly,  and  so  did  Lucie. 
But,  Miss  Pross  suddenly  became  afflicted  with  a twitching 
in  the  head  and  body,  and  retired  into  the  house.  She  was 
not  unfrequently  the  victim  of  this  disorder,  and  she  called  ' 
it,  in  familiar  conversation,  ^‘a  fit  of  the  jerks.” 

The  Doctor  was  in  his  best  condition,  and  looked  specially 
young.  The  resemblance  between  him  and  Lucie  was  very 
strong  at  such  times,  and  as  they  sat  side  by  side,  she  lean- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 


93 


ng  on  his  shoulder,  and  he  resting  his  arm  on  the  back  of 
ler  chair,  it  was  very  agreeable  to  trace  the  likeness. 

He  had  been  talking  all  day,  on  many  subiects,  and  with 
inusual  vivacity.  '^Pray,  Doctor  Manette,’'"  .aid  Mr.  Dar- 
lay,  as  they  sat  under  the  plane-tree — and  he  said  it  in  the 
latural  pursuit  of  the  topic  in  hand,  which  happened  to  be 
he  old  buildings  of  London — have  you  seen  much  of  the 
-ower? 

''Lucie  and  I have  been  there;  but  only  casually.  We 
lave  seen  enough  of  it,  to  know  that  it  teems  with  interest; 
ittle  more.” 

"7  have  been  there,  as  you  remember,”  said  Darnay, 
nth  a smile,  though  reddening  a little  angrily,  in  another 
haracter,  and  not  in  a character  that  gives  facilities  for 
eeing  much  of  it.  They  told  me  a curious  thing  when  I 
ms  there.” 

''What  was  that? ” Lucie  asked. 

'■  In  making  some  alterations,  the  workmen  came  upon 
a old  dungeon,  which  had  been,  for  many  years,  built  up 
ad  forgotten.  Every  stone  of  its  inner  wall  was  covered 
7 inscriptions  which  had  been  carved  by  prisoners — dates, 
ames,  complaints,  and  prayers.  Upon  a corner  stone  in 
.1  angle  of  the  wall,  one  prisoner,  who  seemed  to  have 
me  to  execution,  had  cut  as  his  last  work,  three  letters, 
hey  were  done  with  some  very  poor  instrument,  and  hur- 
edly,  with  an  unsteady  hand.  At  first,  they  were  read 
} D.  I.  C. ; but,  on  being  more  carefully  examined,  the 
St  letter  was  found  to  be  G.  There  was  no  record  or 
gend  of  any  prisoner  with  those  initials,  and  many  fruit- 
ss  guesses  were  made  what  the  name  could  have  been, 
t length,  it  was  suggested  that  the  letters  were  not  in- 
mls,  but  the  complete  word.  Dig.  The  floor  was  exam- 
ed  very  carefully  under  the  inscription,  and,  in  the  earth 
sneath  a stone,  or  tile,  or  some  fragment  of  paving,  were 
und  the  ashes  of  a paper,  mingled  with  the  ashes  of  a 
lall  leathern  case  or  bag.  What  the  unknown  prisoner 
-d  written  will  never  be  read,  but  he  had  written  some- 
ing,  and  hidden  it  away  to  keep  it  from  the  gaoler^^ 

My  father,”  exclaimed  Lucie,  "you  are  ill!  ” 

He  had  suddenly  started  up,  with  his  hand  to  his  head. 

manner  and  his  look  quite  terrified  them  all. 

No,  my  dear,  not  ill.  There  are  large  drops  of  rain 
and  they  made  me  start.  We  had  better  go  in.” 


94 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


He  recovered  himself  almost  instantly.  Eain  was  really 
falling  in  large  drops,  and  he  showed  the  back  of  his  hand 
with  rain-dr<:j}s  on  it.  But,  he  said  not  a single  word  in 
reference  to  ne  discovery  that  had  been  told  of,  and,  as 
they  went  into  the  house,  the  business  eye  of  Mr.  Lorry 
either  detected,  or  fancied  it  detected,  on  his  face,  as  it 
turned  towards  Charles  Darnay,  the  same  singular  look 
that  had  been  upon  it  when  it  turned  towards  him  in  the 
passages  of  the  Court  House. 

He  recovered  himself  so  quickly,  however,  that  Mr. 
Lorry  had  doubts  of  his  business  eye.  The  arm  of  the 
golden  giant  in  the  hall  was  not  more  steady  than  he  was, 
when  he  stopped  under  it  to  remark  to  them  that  he  was 
not  yet  proof  against  slight  surprises  (if  he  ever  would  be), 
and  that  the  rain  had  startled  him. 

Tea-time,  and  Miss  Pross  making  tea,  with  another  fit  of 
the  jerks  upon  her,  and  yet  no  Hundreds  of  people.  Mr. 
Carton  had  lounged  in,  but  he  made  only  Two. 

The  night  was  so  very  sultry,  that  although  they  sat 
with  doors  and  windows  open,  they  were  overpowered  by 
heat.  When  the  tea-table  was  done  with,  they  all  moved 
to  one  of  the  windows,  and  looked  out  into  the  heavy  twi- 
light. Lucie  sat  by  her  father;  Darnay  sat  beside  her; 
Carton  leaned  against  a window.  The  curtains  were  long 
and  white,  and  some  of  the  thunder-gusts  that  whirled  into 
the  corner,  caught  them. up  to  the  ceiling  and  waved  them 
like  spectral  wings. 

‘^The  rain-drops  are  still  falling,  large,  heavy,  and  few,’^ 
said  Doctor  Manette.  It  comes  slowly.’^ 

‘^It  comes  surely,’’  said  Carton. 

They  spoke  low,  as  people  watching  and  waiting  mostly 
do;  as  people  in  a dark  room,  watching  and  waiting  for 
Lightning,  always  do. 

There  was  a great  hurry  in  the  streets  of  people  speeding 
away  to  get  shelter  before  the  storm  broke;  the  wonderful 
corner  for  echoes  resounded  with  the  echoes  of  footsteps 
coming  and  going,  yet  not  a footstep  was  there. 

A multitude  of  people,  and  yet  a solitude ! ” said  Dar- 
nay, when  they  had  listened  for  a while.  ^ ( 

‘^Is  it  not  impressive,  Mr.  Darnay?”  asked  Lucie. 

Sometimes,  I have  sat  here  of  an  evening,  until  T havj 
fancied — but  even  the  shade  of  a foolish  fancy  makes  me 
shudder  to-night,  when  all  is  so  black  and  solemn ” ^ { 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


95 


‘‘Let  us  shudder  too.  We  may  know  what  it  is.” 

“ It  will  seem  nothing  to  you.  Such  whims  are  only  im- 
pressive as  we  originate  them,  I think;  they  are  not  to  be 
jommunicated.  I have  sometimes  sat  alone  here  of  ai 
evening,  listening,  until  I have  made  the  echoes  out  to  be 
he  echoes  of  all  the  footsteps  that  are  coming  by-and-bye 
nto  our  lives.” 

There  is  a great  crowd  coming  one  day  into  our  lives, 
f that  be  so,”  Sydney  Carton  struck  in,  in  his  moody  way. 

The  footsteps  were  incessant,  and  the  hurry  of  them  be- 
:ame  more  and  more  rapid.  The  corner  echoed  and  re- 
echoed with  the  tread  of  feet;  some,  as  it  seemed,  under 
he  windows;  some,  as  it  seemed,  in  the  room;  some  com- 
ng,  some  going,  some  breaking  off,  some  stopping  alto- 
gether; all  in  the  distant  streets,  and  not  one  within  sight. 

“ Are  all  these  footsteps  destined  to  come  to  all  of  us, 
kliss  Manette,  or  are  we  to  divide  them  among  us?  ” 

“I  don’t  know,  Mr.  Darnay;  I told  you  it  was  a foolish 
^^cy,  but  you  asked  for  it.  When  I have  yielded  myself 
o it,  I have  been  alone,  and  then  I have  imagined  them 
he  footsteps  of  the  people  who  are  to  come  into  my  life, 
.nd  my  father’s.” 

I take  them  into  mine ! ” said  Carton.  “ 1 ask  no  ques- 
ions  and  make  no  stipulations.  There  is  a great  crowd 

•earing  down  upon  us.  Miss  Manette,  and  I see  them 

y the  Lightning.”  He  added  the  last  words,  after  there 
lad  been  a vivid  flash  which  had  shown  him  lounging  in 
he  window. 

“ And  I hear  them ! ” he  added  again,  after  a peal  of 
hunder.  “ Here  they  come,  fast,  fierce,  and  furious ! ” 

It  was  the  rush  and  roar  of  rain  that  he  typefied,  and  it 
topped  him,  for  no  voice  could  be  heard  in  it.  A mem- 
rable  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning  broke  with  that 
weep  of  water,  and  there  was  not  a moment’s  interval  in 
rash,  and  fire,  and  rain,  until  after  the  moon  rose  at  mid- 
ight. 

The  great  bell  of  Saint  Paul’s  was  striking  One  in  the 
leared  air,  when  Mr.  Lorry,  escorted  by  Jerry,  high-booted 
ad  bearing  a lantern,  set  forth  on  his  return-passage  to 
lerkenwell.  There  were  solitary  patches  of  road  on  the 
ay  between  Soho  and  Clerkenwell,  and  Mr.  Lorry,  mind- 
il  of  footpads,  always  retained  Jerry  for  this  service : 
lough  it  was  usually  performed  a good  two  hours  earlier. 


96 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


What  a night  it  has  been ! Almost  a night,  Jerry, 
said  Mi\  Lorry,  ‘Ho  bring  the  dead  out  of  their  graves.” 

“ I never  see  the  night  myself,  master — not  yet  I donH 
expect  to — Avhat  would  do  that,”  answered  Jerry. 

“Good  night,  Mr.  Carton,”  said  the  man  of  business. 
“ Good  night,  Mr.  Darnay.  Shall  we  ever  see  such  a night 
again,  together ! ” j 

Perhaps.  Perhaps,  see  the  great  crowd  of  people  with 
its  rush  and  roar,  bearing  down  upon  them,  too. 


CHAPTER  VII.  I 

MON8EIGNEUR  IN  TOWN.  i 

1 

I 

Monseigneur,  one  of  the  great  lords  in  power  at  thej 
Court,  held  his  fortnightly  reception  in  his  grand  hotel  in; 
Paris.  Monseigneur  was  in  his  inner  room,  his  sanctuaryj 
of  sanctuaries,  the  Holiest  of  Holiests  to  the  crowd  of  wor-i 
shippers  in  the  suite  of  rooms  without.  Monseigneur  was| 
about  to  take  his  chocolate.  Monseigneur  could  swallow  a' 
great  many  things  with  ease,  and  was  by  some  few  sullen^ 
minds  supposed  to  be  rather  rapidly  swallowing  France ;| 
but,  his  morning’s  chocolate  could  not  so  much  as  get  into 
the  throat  of  Monseigneur,  without  the  aid  of  four  strong 
men  besides  the  Cook. 

Yes.  It  took  four  men,  all  four  ablaze  with  gorgeous 
decoration,  and  the  Chief  of  them  unable  to  exist  with 
fewer  than  two  gold  watches  in  his  pocket,  emulative  of 
the  noble  and  chaste  fashion  set  by  Monseigneur,  to  con- 
duct the  happy  chocolate  to  Monseigneur’s  lips.  One! 
lacquey  carried  the  chocolate-pot  into  the  sacred  presence; 
a second,  milled  and  frothed  the  chocolate  with  the  little 
instrument  he  bore  for  that  function;  a third,  presented  the 
favoured  napkin;  a fourth  (he  of  the  two  gold  watches)^ 
poured  the  chocolate  out.  It  was  impossible  for  MoiiJ 
seigneur  to  dispense  with  one  of  these  attendants  on  thd 
chocolate  and  hold  his  high  place  under  the  admiring 
Heavens.  Deep  would  have  been  the  blot  upon  his 
escutcheon  if  his  chocolate  had  been  ignobly  waited  on  by 
only  three  men;  he  must  have  died  of  two.  j 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


97 


Monseigneur  had  been  out  at  a little  supper  last  night, 
where  the  comedy  and  the  Grand  Opera  were  charmingly 
represented.  Monseigneur  was  out  at  a little  supper  most 
nights,  with  fascinating  company.  So  polite  and  so  im- 
pressible was  Monseigneur,  that  the  Comedy  and  the  Grand 
Opera  had  far  more  influence  wuth  him  in  the  tiresome  ar- 
ticles of  state  affairs  and  state  secrets,  than  the  needs  of 
all  France.  A happy  circumstance  for  France,  as  the  like 
always  is  for  all  countries  similarly  favoured! — always  was 
for  England  (by  way  of  example),  in  the  regretted  days  of 
the  merry  Stuart  who  sold  it. 

Monseigneur  had  one  truly  noble  idea  of  general  public 
business,  which  was,  to  let  everything  go  on  in  its  own  way; 
of  particular  public  business,  Monseigiieur  had  the  other 
truly  noble  idea  that  it  must  all  go  his  way — tend  to  his 
own  power  and  pocket.  Of  his  pleasures,  general  and  par- 
ticular, Monseigneur  had  the  other  truly  noble  idea,  that 
the  world  was  made  for  them.  The  text  of  his  order  (al- 
tered from  the  original  by  only  a pronoun,  which  is  not 
much)  ran  > “ The  earth  and  the  fulness  thereof  are  mine, 
saith  Monsigneur. 

Yet,  Monseigneur  had  slowly  found  that  \uilgar  embar- 
rassments crept  into  his  affairs,  both  private  and  public; 
and  he  had,  as  to  both  classes  of  affairs,  allied  himself  per- 
force with  a Farmer-General.  As  to  finances  public,  be- 
cause Monseigneur  could  not  make  anything  at  all  of  them, 
and  must  consequently  let  them  out  to  somebody  who 
could;  as  to  finances  private,  because  Farmer-Generals 
were  rich,  and  Monseigneur,  after  generations  of  great  lux- 
uiy  and  expense,  was  growing  poor.  Hence  Monseigneur 
had  taken  his  sister  from  a convent,  while  there  was  yet 
time  to  ward  off  the  impending  veil,  the  cheapest  garment 
she  could  wear,  and  had  bestowed  her  as  a prize  upon  a very 
rich  Farmer-General,  poor  in  family.  Which  Farmer-Gen- 
eral, carrying  an  appropriate  cane  with  a golden  apple 
on  the  top  of  it,  was  now  among  the  company  in  the  outer 
roorns,  much  prostrated  before  by  mankind — always  ex- 
cepting superior  mankind  of  the  blood  of  Monseigneur, 
who,  his  own  wife  included,  looked  down  upon  him  with 
the  loftiest  contempt. 

A sumptuous  ^ man  was  the  Farmer-General.  Thirty 
horses  stood  in  his  stables,  twenty-four  male  domestics  sat 
in  his  halls,  six  body- women  waited  on  his  wife.  As  one 


98 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


who  pretended  to  do  nothing  but  plunder  and  forage  wtere 
he“couId,  the  Farmer-General — howsoever  his  matrimonial 
relations  conduced  to  social  morality — was  at  least  the 
greatest  reality  among  the  personages  who  attended  at  the 
hotel  of  Monseigneur  that  day. 

For,  the  rooms,  though  a beautiful  scene  to  look  at,  and 
adorned  with  every  device  of  decoration  that  the  taste  and 
-skHi  of  the  time  could  achieve,  were,  in  truth,  not  a sound 
business;  considered  with  any  reference  to  the  scarecrows 
in  the  rags  and  nightcaps  elsewhere  (and  not  so  far  off, 
either,  but  that  the  watching  towers  of  !Notre  Dame,  almost 
equi-distant  from  the  two  extremes,  could  see  them  both), 
they  would  have  been  an  exceedingly  uncomfortable  busi- 
ness— if  that  could  have  been  anybody’s  business,  at  the 
house  of  Monseigneur.  Military  officers  destitute  of  mili- 
tary knowdedge;  naval  officers  with  no  idea  of  a ship;  civil 
officers  without  a notion  of  affairs;  brazen  ecclesiastics,  of 
the  worst  world  worldly,  with  sensual  eyes,  loose  tongues, 
and  looser  lives;  all  totally  unlit  for  their  several  callings, 
all  lying  horribly  in  pretending  to  belong  to  them,  but  all 
nearly  or  remotely  of  the  order  of  Monseigneur,  and  there- 
fore foisted  on  all  public  employments  from  which  any- 
thing was  to  be  got;  these  were  to  be  told  off  by  the  score 
and  the  score.  People  not  immediately  connected  with 
Monseigneur  or  the  State,  yet  equally  unconnected  with 
anything  that  was  real,  or  with  lives  passed  in  travelling 
by  any  straight  road  to  any  true  earthly  end,  were  no  less 
abundant.  Doctors  who  made  great  fortunes  out  of  dainty 
remedies  for  imaginary  disorders  that  never  existed,  smiled 
upon  their  courtly  patients  in  the  ante-chambers  of  Mon- 
seigneur. Projectors  who  had  discovered  every  kind  of 
remedy  for  the  little  evils  with  which  the  State  was  touched, 
except  the  remedy  of  setting  to  work  in  earnest  to  root  out 
a single  sin,  poured  their  distracting  babble  into  any  ears 
they  could  lay  hold  of,  at  the  reception  of  Monseigneur. 
Unbelieving  Philosophers  who  were  remodelling  the  world 
with  words,  and  making  card-towers  of  Babel  to  scale  the 
skies  with,  talked  with  Unbelieving  Chemists  who  had  an 
eye  on  the  transmutation  of  metals,  at  this  wonderful  gath- 
ering accumulated  by  Monseigneur.  Exquisite  gentlemen 
of  the  finest  breeding,  which  was  at  that  remarkable  time 
— and  has  been  since — to  be  known  by  its  fruits  of  indifter- 
ence  to  every  natural  subject  of  human  interest,  were  in  the 


OF  TWO  CITIES. 


99 


most  exemp  ^ ^ of  exhaustic  r,:  at  the  hotel  of  Mon- 

seigneur. -Sucii  / i had  these  various  notabilities  left 
behind  the  m in  the  line  world  of  Paris,  that  the  spies 
i among  the  assembled  devotees  of  Monseigneur — forming  a 
I goodly  half  of  the  polite  company — would  have  found  it 
I hard  to  dis  cover  among  the  angels  of  that  sphere  one  soli- 
j tary  wife,  who,  in  her  manners  and  appearance,  owned  to 
I )eing  a Mother.  Indeed,  except  for  the  mere  act  of  bring- 
.ng  a troublesome  creature  into  this  world — which  does  not 
: go  far  towards  the  realisation  of  the  name  of  mother — there 
1 was  no  su(3h  thing  known  to  the  fashion.  Peasant  women 
; kept  the  unfashionable  babies  close,  and  brought  them  up, 
and  charming  grandmammas  of  sixty  dressed  and  supped 
I is  at  twenty. 

The  lepirosy  of  unreality  disfigured  every  human  creature 
n attendance  upon  Monseigneur.  In  the  outermost  room 
were  half  a dozen  exceptional  people  who  had  had,  for  a 
,jfew  year^?,  some  vague  misgiving  in  them  that  things  in 
(general  v^ere  going  rather  wrong.  As  a promising  way  of 
netting  tKem  right,  half  of  the  half-dozen  had  become  mem- 
pers  of  a fantastic  sect  of  Convulsionists,  and  were  even 
hhen  considering  within  themselves  whether  they  should 
:oam,  rage,  roar,  and  turn  cataleptic  on  the  spot— thereby 
jetting  up  a highly  intelligible  finger-post  to  the  Future, 
or  MoLiseigneur’s  guidance.  Besides  these  Dervishes, 
vere  other  three  who  had  rushed  into  another  sect,  which 
lended  matters  with  a jargon  about  the  Centre  of 
L'ruth : holding  that  Man  had  got  out  of  the  Centre  of 
^ruth — which  did  not  need  much  demonstration — but  had 
lot  got  out  of  the  Circumference,  and  that  he  was  to  be 
cept  from  flying  out  of  the  Circumference,  and  was  even  to 
)e  shoved  back  into  the  Centre,  by  fasting  and  seeing  of 
pirits.  Among  these,  accordingly,  much  discoursing  with 
firits  T/ent  on — and  it  did  a world  of  good  which  never 
ecame  manifest. 

: But,  the  comfort  was,  that  all  the  company  at  the  grand 
lotel  of  Monseigneur  were  perfectly  dressed.  If  the  Day 
>f  Judgment  had  only  been  ascertained  to  be  a dress  day, 

I verybody  there  would  have  been  eternally  correct.  Such 
; rizzling  and  powdering  and  sticking  up  of  hair,  such  deli- 
j ate  complexions  artificially  preserved  and  mended,  such 
I allant  swords  to  look  at,  and  such  delicate  honour  to  the 
i ense  of  smell,  would  surely  keep  anything  going,  for  ever 


100 


A TALE  OF  TWO  Oil. 


and  ever.  The  exquu^/^e  gentlemen  ^ _.^st  breeding 

wore  little  pendent  trinkets  that  chinl  ..a  as  the  y languidly 
moved;  these  golden  fetters  rang  like  precious  'little  bells; 
and  what  with  that  ringing,  and  with  the  rustle  of  silk  and 
brocade  and  fine  linen,  there  was  a flutter  in  the  air  that 
fanned  Saint  Antoine  and  his  devouring  hunger  far  away. 

Dress  was  the  one  unfailing  talisman  and  char  m used  for 
keeping  all  things  in  their  places.  Everybody  w^as  dressed 
for  a Fancy  Ball  that  was  never  to  leave  off.  ’ From  the 
Palace  of  the  Tuileries,  through  Monseigneui’  and  the 
whole  Court,  through  the  Chambers,  the  Tribunals  of  Jus- 
tice, and  all  society  (except  the  scarecrows),  the  Fancy 
Ball  descended  to  the  Common  Executioner : wh:o,  in  pur- 
suance of  the  charm,  was  required  to  officiate  frizzled, 
powdered,  in  a gold-laced  coat,  pumps,  and  white  silk 
stockings.”  At  the  gallows  and  the  wheel — the  axe  was  a 
rarity — Monsieur  Paris,  as  it  was  the  episcopal  mode  among 
his  brother  Professors  of  the  provinces.  Monsieur  Orleans, 
and  the  rest,  to  call  him,  presided  in  this  dain  ty  dress. 
And  who  among  the  company  at  Monseigneur’s  -reception 
in  that  seventeen  hundred  and  eightieth  year  of  our  Lord, 
could  possibly  doubt,  that  a system  rooted  in  ai  frizzled 
hangman,  powdered,  gold-laced,  pumped,  and  white-silk 
stockinged,  would  see  the  very  stars  out ! 

Monseigneur  having  eased  his  four  men  of  their  burdens 
and  taken  his  chocolate,  caused  the  doors  of  the  Holiest  of 
Holiests  to  be  thrown  open,  and  issued  forth.  Then,  what 
submission,  what  cringing  and  fawning,  what  servility, 
what  abject  humiliation ! As  to  bowing  down  in  body  and 
spirit,  nothing  in  that  way  was  left  for  Heaven — which 
may  have  been  one  among  other  reasons  why  the  w'orship- 
pers  of  Monseigneur  never  troubled  it. 

Bestowing  a word  of  promise  here  and  a smile  there,  a 
whisper  on  one  happy  slave  and  a wave  of  the  band  on 
another.  Monseigneur  affably  passed  through  his  rooms  to 
the  remote  region  of  the  Circumference  of  Truth.  There, 
Monseigneur  turned,  and  came  back  again,  and  so  in  due 
course  of  time  got  himself  shut  up  in  his  sanctuary  by  the 
chocolate  sprites,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

The  show  being  over,  the  flutter  in  the  air  became  quite 
a little  storm,  and  the  precious  little  bells  went  ringing 
down-stairs.  There  was  soon  but  one  person  left  of  all  the 
crowd,  and  he,  with  his  hat  under  his  arm  and  his  snuff- 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


101 


box  in  his  hand,  slowly  passed  among  the  mirrors  on  his 
way  out. 

devote  you/’  said  this  person,  stopping  at  the  last 
door  on  his  way,  and  turning  in  the  direction  of  the  sanc- 
. tuary,  to  the  Devil ! ” 

With  that,  he  shook  the  snuff  from  his  fingers  as  if  he 
had  shaken  the  dust  from  his  feet,  and  quietly  walked 
down-stairs. 

He  was  a man  of  about  sixty,  handsomely  dressed, 
haughty  in  manner,  and  with  a face  like  a fine  mask.  A 
face  of  a transparent  paleness;  every  feature  in  it  clearly 
defined;  one  set  expression  on  it.  The  nose,  beautifully 
formed  otherwise,  was  very  slightly  pinched  at  the  top  of 
; each  nostril.  In  those  two  compressions,  or  dints,  the  only 
little  change  that  the  face  showed,  resided.  They  persisted 
in  changing  colour  sometimes,  and  they  would  be  occasion- 
ally dilated  and  contracted  by  something  like  a faint  pulsa- 
gave  a look  of  treachery,  and  cruelty,  to 
the  whole  countenance.  Examined  with  attention,  its  capac- 
ity of  helping  such  a look  was  to  be  found  in  the  line  of 
|the  mouth,  and  the  lines  of  the  orbits  of  the  eyes,  being 
much  too  horizontal  and  thin;  still,  in  the  effect  of  the 
face  made,  it  was  a handsome  face,  and  a remarkable 
one. 

Its  owner  went  down-stairs  into  the  courtyard,  got  into 
ais  carriage,  and  drove  away.  Not  many  people  had 
talked  with  him  at  the  reception;  he  had  stood  in  a little 
?pace  apart,  and  Monseigneur  might  have  been  warmer  in 
iis  mariner.  It  appeared,  under  the  circumstances,  rather 
igreeable  to  him  to  see  the  common  people  dispersed  be- 
fore his  horses,  and  often  barely  escaping  from  being  run 
drove  as  if  he  were  charging  an  enemy, 
,ind  the  furious  recklessness  of  the  man  brought  no  check 
nto  the  face,  or  to  the  lips,  of  the  master.  The  complaint 
‘ sometimes  made  itself  audible,  even  in  that  deaf  city 
nd  dumb  age,  that,  in  the  narrow  streets  without  foot- 


ways, the  fierce  patrician  custom  of  hard  driving  endan 


^ered  and  maimed  the  mere  vulgar  in  a barbarous  manner, 
Jut,  few  cared  enough  for  that  to  think  of  it  a second  time. 

, nd,  m this  matter,  as  in  all  others,  the  common  wretches 

difficulties  as  they  could. 

With  a wild  rattle  and  clatter,  and  an  inhuman  abandon- 
lent  of  consideration  not  easy  to  be  understood  in  these 


102 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


days,  the  carriage  dashed  through  streets  and  swept  round 
corners,  with  women  screaming  before  it,  and  men  clutch- 
ing eacli  other  and  clutching  children  out  of  its  way.  At 
last,  swooping  at  a street  corner  by  a fountain,  one  of  its 
wheels  came  to  a sickening  little  jolt,  and  there  was  a loud 
cry  from  a number  of  voices,  and  the  horses  reared  and 
plunged. 

But  for  the  latter  inconvenience,  the  carriage  probably 
would  not  have  stopped;  carriages  were  often  known  to 
drive  on,  and  leave  their  wounded  behind,  and  why  not? 
But  the  frightened  valet  had  got  down  in  a hurry,  and 
there  were  twenty  hands  at  the  horses’  bridles. 

What  has  gone  wrong?  ” said  Monsieur,  calmly  looking 

out. 

A tall  man  in  a nightcap  had  caught  up  a bundle  from 
among  the  feet  of  the  horses,  and  had  laid  it  on  the  base- 
ment of  the  fountain,  and  was  down  in  the  mud  and  wet, 
howling  over  it  like  a wild  animal. 

Pardon,  Monsieur  the  Marquis ! ” said  a ragged  and 
submissive  man,  ^4t  is  a child.” 

Why  does  he  make  that  abominable  noise?  Is  it  his 
child?  ” 

‘^Excuse  me,  Monsieur  the  Marquis — it  is  a pity — yes.” 

The  fountain  was  a little  removed;  for  the  street  opened, 
where  it  was,  into  a space  some  ten  or  twelve  yards  square. 
As  the  tall  man  suddenly  got  up  from  the  ground,  and 
came  running  at  the  carriage.  Monsieur  the  Marquis 
clapped  his  hand  for  an  instant  on  his  sword-hilt. 

Killed ! ” shrieked  the  man,  in  wild  desperation,  ex- 
tending both  arms  at  their  length  above  his  head,  and 
staring  at  him.  Dead ! ” 

The  people  closed  round,  and  looked  at  Monsieur  the 
Marquis.  There  was  nothing  revealed  by  the  many  eyes 
that  looked  at  him  but  watchfulness  and  eagerness;  there 
was  no  visible  menacing  or  anger.  Neither  did  the  people 
say  anything;  after  the  first  cry,  they  had  been  silent,  and 
they  remained  so.  The  voice  of  the  submissive  man  who 
had  spoken,  was  flat  and  tame  in  its  extreme  submission. 
Monsieur  the  Marquis  ran  his  eyes  over  them  all,  as  if  they 
had  been  mere  rats  come  out  of  their  holes. 

He  took  out  his  purse. 

^^It  is  extraordinary  to  me,”  said  he,  ^Hhat  you  peoples 
cannot  take  care  of  yourselves  and  your  children.  One  or 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


103 


the  other  of  you  is  for  ever  in  the  way.  How  do  I 
what  injury  you  have  done  my  horses.  See ! Give  hiL 
that.’^ 

He  threw  out  a gold  coin  for  the  valet  to  pick  up,  and 
all  the  heads  craned  forward  that  all  the  eyes  might  look 
down  at  it  as  it  fell.  The  tall  man  called  out  again  with 
a most  unearthly  cry,  ‘^Dead! 

He  was  arrested  by  the  quick  arrival  of  another  man,  for 
whom  the  rest  made  way.  On  seeing  him,  the  miserable 
creature  fell  upon  his  shoulder,  sobbing  and  crying,  and 
pointing  to  the  fountain,  where  some  women  were  s-tooping 
over  the  motionless  bundle,  and  moving  gently  about  it. 
They  were  as  silent,  however,  as  the  men. 

know  all,  I know  all,’’  said  the  last  comer.  ^^Be  a 
brave  man,  my  Gaspard ! It  is  better  for  the  poor  little 
plaything  to  die  so,  than  to  live.  It  has  died  in  a moment 
without  pain.  Could  it  have  lived  an  hour  as  happily?  ” 
You  are  a philosopher,  you  there,”  said  the  Marquis, 
smiling.  “How  do  they  call  you?  ” 

“They  call  me  Defarge.” 

“Of  what  trade? ” 

’ “Monsieur  the  Marquis,  vendor  of  wine.” 

“Pick  up  that,  philosopher  and  vendor  of  wine,”  said 
the  Marquis,  throwing  him  another  gold  coin,  “ and  spend 
it  as  you  will.  The  horses  there;  are  they  right?  ” 
jj  Without  deigning  to  look  at  the  assemblage  a second 
^time.  Monsieur  the  Marquis  leaned  back  in  his  seat,  and 
was  just  being  driven  away  with  the  air  of  a gentleman 
who  had  accidentally  broke  some  common  thing,  and  had 
paid  for  it,  and  could  afford  to  pay  for  itj  when  his  ease 
was  suddenly  disturbed  by  a coin  flying  into  his  carriage, 

ILand  ringing  on  its  floor. 

L “ Hold ! ” said  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  “ Hold  the 
Ohorses ! Who  threw  that?  ” 

1 He  looked  to  the  spot  where  Defarge  the  vendor  of  wine 
|had  stood,  a moment  before;  but  the  wretched  father  was 
tjgrovelling  on  his  face  on  the  pavement  in  that  spot,  and 
|the  figure  that  stood  beside  him  was  the  figure  of  a dark 
Istout  woman,  knitting. 

I “ You  dogs ! ” said  the  Marquis,  but  smoothly,  and  with 
I in  unchanged  front,  except  as  to  the  spots  on  his  nose : “ I 
^would  ride  over  any  of  you  very  willingly,  and  exterminate 
you  from  the  earth.  If  I knew  which  rascal  threw  at  the 


104 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


-■{age,  and  if  that  brigand  were  sufficiently  near  it,  he 
fwuld  be  crushed  under  the  wheels.” 

So  cowed  was  their  condition,  and  so  long  and  hard  their 
experience  of  what  such  a man  could  do  to  them,  within 
the  law  and  beyond  it,  that  not  a voice,  or  a hand,  or  even 
an  eye  was  raised.  Among  the  men,  not  one.  But  the 
woman  who  stood  knitting  looked  up  steadily,  and  looked 
the  Marquis  in  the  face.  It  was  not  for  his  dignity  to  no- 
tice it;  his  contemptuous  eyes  passed  over  her,  and  over 
all  the  other  rats;  and  he  leaned  back  in  his  seat  again, 
and  gave  the  word  “ Go  on ! ” 

He  was  driven  on,  and  other  carriages  came  whirling  by 
in  quick  succession;  the  Minister,  the  State-Projector,  the 
Farmer-General,  the  Doctor,  the  Lawyer,  the  Ecclesiastic, 
the  Grand  Opera,  the  Comedy,  the  whole  Fancy  Ball  in  a 
bright  continuous  flow,  came  whirling  by.  The  rats  had 
crept  out  of  their  holes  to  look  on,  and  they  remained  look- 
ing on  for  hours;  soldiers  and  police  often  passing  between 
them  and  the  spectacle,  and  making  a barrier  behind  which 
they  slunk,  and  through  which  they  peeped.  The  father 
had  long  ago  taken  up  his  bundle  and  hidden  himself  away 
with  it,  when  the  women  who  had  tended  the  bundle  while 
it  lay  on  the  base  of  the  fountain,  sat  there  watching  tin, 
running  of  the  water  and  the  rolling  of  the  Fancy  Ball— 
when  the  one  woman  who  had  stood  conspicuous,  knitting, 
still  knitted  on  with  the  steadfastness  of  Fate.  The  watei 
of  the  fountain  ran,  the  swift  river  ran,  the  day  ran  int( 
evening,  so  much  life  in  the  city  ran  into  death  according 
to  rule,  time  and  tide  waited  for  no  man,  the  rats  wer^ 
sleeping  close  together  in  their  dark  holes  again,  the  Fanc^ 
Ball  was  lighted  up  at  supper,  all  things  ran  their  course. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

MONSEIGNEUR  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

A BEAUTIFUL  landscape,  with  the  corn  bright  in  it,  bi 
not  abundant.  Patches  of  poor  rye  where  corn  should  hav 
been,  patches  of  poor  peas  and  beans,  patches  of  mo, 
coarse  vegetable  substitutes  for  wheat.  On  inanima- 
nature,  as  on  the  men  and  women  who  cultivated  it,  a pv' 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


105 


valent  tendency  towards  an  appearance  of  vegetating  un- 
willingly— a dejected  disposition  to  give  up,  and  wither 
away. 

Monsieur  the  Marquis  in  his  travelling  carriage  (which 
might  have  been  lighter),  conducted  by  four  post-horses 
and  two  postilions,  fagged  up  a steep  hill.  A blush  on  the 
countenance  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis  was  no  impeachment 
of  his  high  breeding;  it  was  not  from  within;  it  was  occa- 
sioned by  an  external  circumstance  beyond  his  control — the 
setting  sun. 

The  sunset  struck  so  brilliantly  into  the  travelling  car- 
riage when  it  gained  the  hill- top,  that  its  occupant  was 
steeped  in  crimson.  ^‘It  will  die  out,’^  said  Monsieur  the 
Marquis,  glancing  at  his  hands,  directly.” 

In  effect,  the  sun  was  so  low  that  it  dipped  at  the  mo- 
ment. When  the  heavy  drag  had  been  adjusted  to  the 
wheel,  and  the  carriage  slid  down  hill,  with  a cinderous 
smell,  in  a cloud  of  dust,  the  red  glow  departed  quickly; 
the  sun  and  the  Marquis  going  down  together,  there  was 
no  glow  left  when  the  drag  was  taken  off. 

But,  there  remained  a broken  country,  bold  and  open,  a 
little  village  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  a broad  sweep  and 
rise  beyond  it,  a church-tower,  a windmill,  a forest  for  the 
ehase,  and  a crag  with  a fortress  on  it  used  as  a prison. 
Round  upon  all  these  darkening  objects  as  the  night  drew 
on,  the  Marquis  looked,  with  the  air  of  one  who  was  com- 
ing near  home.  ^ 

The  village  had  its  one  poor  street,  with  its  poor  brew- 
ery, poor  tannery,  poor  tavern,  poor  stable-yard  for  relays 
of  post-horses,  poor  fountain,  all  usual  poor  appointments. 

It  had  its  poor  people  too.  All  its  people  were  poor,  and 
many  of  them  were  sitting  at  their  doors,  shredding  spare 
onions  and  the  like  for  supper,  while  many  were  at  the 
fountain,  washing  leaves,  and  grasses,  and  any  such  small 
yieldings  of  the  earth  that  could  be  eaten.  Expressive 
signs  of  what  made  them  poor,  were  not  wanting;  the  tax 
for  the  state,  the  tax  for  the  church,  the  tax  for  the  lord, 
tax  local  and  tax  general,  were  to  be  paid  here  and  to  be 
paid  there,  according  to  solemn  inscription  in  the  little  vil- 
lage, until  the  wonder  was,  that  there  was  any  village  left 
unswallowed. 

Few  children  were  to  be  seen,  and  no  dogs.  As  to  the 
men  and  women,  their  choice  on  earth  was  stated  in  the 


106 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


prospect — Life  on  the  lowest  terms  that  could  sustain  it, 
down  in  the  little  village  under  the  mill;  or  captivity  and 
Death  in  the  dominant  prison  on  the  crag. 

Heralded  by  a courier  in  advance,  and  by  the  cracking 
of  his  postilions’  whips,  which  twined  snake-like  about 
their  heads  in  the  evening  air,  as  if  he  came  attended  by 
the  Furies,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  drew  up  in  his  travelling 
carriage  at  the  posting-house  gate.  It  was  hard  by  the 
fountain,  and  the  peasants  suspended  their  operations  to 
look  at  him.  He  looked  at  them,  and  saw  in  them,  with- 
out knowing  it,  the  slow  sure  filing  down  of  misery- worn 
face  and  figure,  that  was  to  make  the  meagreness  of 
Frenchmen  an  English  superstition  which  should  survive 
the  truth  through  the  best  part  of  a hundred  years. 

Monsieur  the  Marquis  cast  his  eyes  over  the  submissive 
faces  that  drooped  before  him,  as  the  like  of  himself  had 
drooped  before  Monseigneur  of  the  Court — only  the  differ- 
ence was,  that  these  faces  drooped  merely  to  suffer  and  not 
to  propitiate — when  a grizzled  mender  of  the  roads  joined 
the  group. 

“ Bring  me  hither  that  fellow ! ” said  the  Marquis-  to  the 
courier. 

The  fellow  was  brought,  cap  in  hand,  and  the  other  fel- 
lows closed  round  to  look  and  listen,  in  the  manner  of  the 
people  at  the  Paris  fountain. 

passed  you  on  the  road?  ” 

Monseigneur,  it  is  true.  I had  the  honour  of  being 
passed  on  the  road.” 

“ Coming  up  the  hill,  and  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  both?  ” 
Monseigneur,  it  is  true.” 

What  did  you  look  at,  so  fixedly?  ” 

Monseigneur,  I looked  at  the  man.” 

He  stooped  a little,  and  with  his  tattered  blue  cap 
pointed  under  the  carriage.  All  his  fellows  stooped  to  look 
under  the  carriage. 

“ What  man,  pig?  And  why  look  there?  ” 

Pardon,  Monseigneur;  he  swung  by  the  chain  of  the 
shoe — the  drag.” 

Who?  ” demanded  the  traveller. 

“Monseigneur,  the  man.” 

“May  the  Devil  carry  away  these  idiots!  How  do  you 
call  the  man?  You  know  all  the  men  of  this  part  of  thoi 
country.  Who  was  he?” 


107 


A two  cities. 


‘‘Your  clemency,  Monseign^ls^^®  was  not  of  this  part 
of  the  country.  Of  all  the  days  ^ never  saw 

“ Swinging  by  the  chain?  To  be  suffocat^r^v 
“ With  your  gracious  permission,  that  was  the 
it.  Monseigneur.  His  head  hanging  over — like  this ! 

He  turned  himself  sideways  to  the  carriage,  and  leaned 
back,  with  his  face  thrown  up  to  the  sky,  and  his  head 
hanging  down;  then  recovered  himself,  fumbled  with  his 
cap,  and  made  a bow. 

“What  was  he  like? 

“ Monseigneur,  he  was  whiter  than  the  miller.  All  cov- 
ered with  dust,  white  as  a spectre,  tall  as  a spectre ! ” 

The  picture  produced  an  immense  sensation  in  the  little 
crowd;  but  all  eyes,  without  comparing  notes  with  other 
eyes,  looked  at  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  Perhaps,  to  ob- 
serve whether  he  had  any  spectre  on  his  conscience. 

“Truly,  you  did  well,’’  said  the  Marquis,  felicitously 
sensible  that  such  vermin  were  not  to  ruffle  him,  “ to  see  a 
thief  accompanying  my  carriage,  and  not  open  that  great 
mouth  of  yours . Bah ! Put  him  aside.  Monsieur  Gabelle ! ” 
M6nsieur  Gabelle  was  the  Postmaster,  and  some  other 
taxing  functionary  united;  he  had  come  out  with  great  ob- 
sequiousness to  assist  at  this  examination,  and  had  held 
the  examined  by  the  drapery  of  his  arm  in  an  offlcial  man- 
ner. 


“ Bah ! Go  aside ! ” said  Monsieur  Gabelle. 

“ Lay  hands  on  this  stranger  if  he  seeks  to  lodge  in  your 
village  to-night,  and  be  sure  that  his  business  is  honest, 
Gabelle.?-’ 

J‘^Monseigneur,  I am  flattered  to  devote  myself  to  your 
orders.” 

“Did  he  run  away,  fellow? — where  is  that  Accursed?  ” 

The  accursed  was  already  under  the  carriage  with  some 
half-dozen  particular  friends,  pointing  out  the  chain  with 
his  blue  cap.  Some  half-dozen  other  particular  friends 
promptly  hauled  him  out,  and  presented  him  breathless  to 
Monsieur  the  Marquis. 

“ Did  the  man  run  away.  Dolt,  when  we  stopped  for  the 
drag?  ” 

“ Monseigneur,  he  precipitated  himself  over  the  hill-side, 
head  first,  as  a person  plunges  into  the  river.” 

“See  to  it,  Gabelle.  Goon!” 


108 


A TALE  OF  TWj 


JITTES. 


The  half-dozen  who  we.><^^peering  at  the  chain  were  still 
among  the  sheep;  the  wheels  turned  so  sud- 

denly that  they^-^^re  lucky  to  save  their  skins  and  bones; 
they  had  little  else  to  save,  or  they  might  not  have 

been  s^x^fortunate. 

, '^he  burst  with  which  the  carriage  started  out  of  the  vil- 
lage and  up  the  rise  beyond,  was  soon  checked  by  the 
steepness  of  the  hill.  Gradually,  it  subsided  to  a foot 
pace,  swinging  and  lumbering  upward  among  the  many 
sweet  scents  of  a summer  night.  The  postilions,  with  a 
thousand  gossamer  gnats  circling  about  them  in  lieu  of  the 
Furies,  quietly  mended  the  points  to  the  lashes  of  their 
whips;  the  valet  walked  by  the  horses;  the  courier  was 
audible,  trotting  on  ahead  into  the  dim  distance. 

At  the  steepest  point  of  the  hill  there  was  a little  burial- 
ground,  with  a Cross  and  a new  large  figure  of  Our  Saviour 
on  it;  it  was  a poor  figure  in  wood,  done  by  some  inexperi- 
enced rustic  carver,  but  he  had  studied  the  figure  from  the 
life— his  own  life,  maybe — for  it  was  dreadfully  spare  and 
thin. 

To  this  distressful  emblem  of  a great  distress  that  had 
long  been  growing  worse,  and  was  not  at  its  worst,  a woman 
was  kneeling.  She  turned  her  head  as  the  carriage  came 
up  to  her,  rose  quickly,  and  presented  herself  at  the  car- 
riage-door. 

^'It  is  you.  Monseigneur!  Monseigneur,  a petition.^’ 

With  an  exclamation  of  impatience,  but  with  his  un- 
changeable face.  Monseigneur  looked  out. 

How,  then ! What  is  it?  Always  petitions  1 ” 
Monseigneur.  For  the  love  of  the  great  God!  My  hus- 
band, the  forester.’’ 

What  of  your  husband,  the  forester?  Always  the  same 
with  you  people.  He  cannot  pay  something?  ” 

^^He  has  paid  all.  Monseigneur.  He  is  dead.” 

Well ! He  is  quiet.  Can  I restore  him  to  you?  ” 

“Alas,  no.  Monseigneur!  But  he  lies  yonder,  under  a 
little  heap  of  poor  grass.” 

“Well?  ” 

“ Monseigneur,  there  are  so  many  little  heaps  of  poor 
grass?  ” 

“Again,  well?  ” 

She  looked  an  old  woman,  but  was  young.  Her  manner 
was  one  of  passionate  grief;  by  turns  she  clasped  her  vein- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


109 


i 

ous  and  knotted  hands  together  with  wild  energy,  and  laid 
one  of  them  on  the  carriage-door — tenderly,  caressingly,  as 
if  it  had  been  a human  breast,  and  could  be  expected  to 
feel  the  appealing  touch. 

[I  ‘‘Monseigneur,  hear  me!  Monseigneur,  hear  my  peti- 
tion! My  husband  died  of  want;  so  many  die  of  want;  so 
i many  more  will  die  of  want.’^ 
i “Again,  well?  Can  I feed  them?  ” 

I “Monseigneur,  the  good  God  knows;  but  I don’t  ask  it. 

' My  petition  is,  that  a morsel  of  stone  or  wood,  with  my 
I husband’s  name,  may  be  placed  over  him  to  show  where  he 
lies.  Otherwise,  the  place  will  be  quickly  forgotten,  it 
I will  never  be  found  when  I am  dead  of  the  same  malady,  I 
shall  be  laid  under  some  other  heap  of  poor  grass.  Mon- 
seigneur, they  are  so  many,  they  increase  so  fast,  there  is 
j no  much  want.  Monseigneur ! Monseigneur ! ” 

I The  valet  had  put  her  away  from  the  door,  the  carriage 
-lhad  broken  into  a brisk  trot,  the  postilions  had  quickened 
the  pace,  she  was  left  far  behind,  and  Monseigneur,  again 
lescorted  by  the  Furies,  was  rapidly  diminishing  the  league 
'or  two  of  distance  that  remained  between  him  and  his 
; chateau. 

The  sweet  scents  of  the  summer  night  rose  all  around 
him,  and  rose,  as  the  rain  falls,  impartially,  on  the  dusty, 
ragged,  and  toil-worn  group  at  the  fountain  not  far  away; 
to  whom  the  mender  of  roads,  with  the  aid  of  the  blue  cap 
without  which  he  was  nothing,  still  enlarged  upon  his  man 
like  a spectre,  as  long  as  they  could  bear  it.  By  degrees, 
as  they  could  bear  no  more,  they  dropped  off  one  by  one, 
and  lights  twinkled  in  little  casements;  which  lights,  as 
the  casements  darkened,  and  more  stars  came  out,  seemed 
bo  have  shot  up  into  the  sky  instead  of  having  been  extin- 
guished. 

I The  shadow  of  a large  high-roofed  house,  and  of  many 
overhanging  trees,  was  upon  Monsieur  the  Marquis  by  that 
:ime;  and  the  shadow  was  exchanged  for  the  light  of  a 
lambeau,  as  his  carriage  stopped,  and  the  great  door  of  his 
1 3h§,teau  was  opened  to  him. 

f “Monsieur  Charles,  whom  I expect;  is  he  arrived  from 
England?  ” 

“Monseigneur,  not  yet.” 


110 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  GORGON’S  HEAD. 

It  was  a heavy  mass  of  building,  that  ch&teau  of  Mon- 
sieur the  Marquis,  Avith  a large  stone  courtyard  before  it, 
and  two  stone  sweeps  of  staircase  meeting  in  a stone  terrace 
before  the  principal  door.  A stony  business  altogether, 
Avith  heavy  stone  balustrades,  and  stone  urns,  and  stone 
flowers,  and  stone  faces  of  men,  and  stone  heads  of  lions,  in 
all  directions.  As  if  the  Gorgon’s  head  had  surveyed  it, 
when  it  was  finished,  two  centuries  ago. 

Up  the  broad  flight  of  shallow  steps.  Monsieur  the  Mar- 
quis, flambeau  preceded,  went  from  his  carriage,  sufSciently 
disturbing  the  darkness  to  elicit  loud  remonstrance  from  an 
owl  in  the  roof  of  the  great  pile  of  stable  building  away 
among  the  trees.  All  else  was  so  quiet,  that  the  flambeau 
carried  up  the  steps,  and  the  other  flambeau  held  at  the 
great  door,  burnt  as  if  they  were  in  a close  room  of  state, 
instead  of  being  in  the  open  night-air.  Other  sound  than 
the  owl’s  voice  there  Avas  none,  save  the  falling  of  a foun- 
tain into  its  stone  basin;  for,  it  was  one  of  those  dark 
nights  that  hold  their  breath  by  the  hour  together,  and 
then  heave  a long  low  sigh,  and  hold  their  breath  again. 

The  great  door  clanged  behind  him,  and  Monsieur  the 
Marquis  crossed  a hall  grim  with  certain  old  boar-spears, 
swords,  and  knives  of  the  chase;  grimmer  with  certain 
heavy  riding-rods  and  riding-whips,  of  which  many  a 
peasant,  gone  to  his  benefactor  Death,  had  felt  the  weight 
when  his  lord  was  angry. 

Avoiding  the  larger  rooms,  which  were  dark  and  made 
fast  for  the  night.  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  with  his  flambeau- 
bearer  going  on  before,  went  up  the  staircase  to  a door  in  a 
corridor.  This  thrown  open,  admitted  him  to  his  OAvn  pri- 
vate apartment  of  three  rooms : his  bed-chamber  and  two 
others.  High  vaulted  rooms  with  cool  uncarpeted  floors, 
great  dogs  upon  the  hearths  for  the  burning  of  wood  in 
winter  time,  and  all  luxuries  befitting  the  state  of  a mai- 
quis  in  a luxurious  age  and  country.  The  fashion  of  the 
last  Louis  but  one,  of  the  line  that  was  never  to  break— the 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Ill 


fourteenth  Louis — was  conspicuous  in  their  rich  furniture; 
but,  it  was  diversified  by  many  objects  that  were  illustra- 
tions of  old  pages  in  the  history  of  France. 

A supper-table  was  laid  for  two,  in  the  third  of  the 
rooms;  a round  room,  in  one  of  the  chateau’s  four  extin- 
guisher-topped towers.  A small  lofty  room,  with  its  win- 
dow wide  open,  and  the  wooden  jalousie-blinds  closed,  so 
that  the  dark  night  only  showed  in  slight  horizontal 
lines  of  black,  alternating  with  their  broad  lines  of  stone 
colour. 

“My  nephew,”  said  the  Marquis,  glancing  at  the  supper 
preparation;  “they  said  he  was  not  arrived.” 

Nor  was  he;  but,  he  had  been  expected  with  Mon- 
,seigneur. 

Ah!  It  is  not  probable  he  will  ai'rive  to-night;  never- 
theless, leave  the  table  as  it  is.  I shall  be  ready  in  a Quar- 
ter of  an  hour.”  ^ 

; In  a quarter  of  an  hour  Monseigneur  was  ready,  and  sat 
iown  alone  to  his  sumptuous  and  choice  supper.  His  chair 
was  opposite  to  the  window,  and  he  had  taken  his  soup,  / 
ind  was  raising  his  glass  of  Bordeaux  to  his  lips,  when  he 
but  it  down. 

What  is  that?  ” he  calmly  asked,  looking  with  atten- 
tion at  the  horizontal  lines  of  black  and  stone  colour. 

. “ Monseigneur?  That?  ” 

“Outside  the  blinds.  Open  the  blinds.” 

It  was  done. 

“Well?” 

“ Monseigneur,  it  is  nothing.  The  trees  and  the  night 
ire  all  that  are  here.’’ 

The  servant  who  spoke,  had  thrown  the  blinds  wide,  had 
ooked  out  into^  the  vacant  darkness,  and  stood  with  that 
>lank  behind  him,  looking  round  for  instructions. 

''Good,”  said  the  imperturbable  master.  "Close  them 
gain.” 

That  was  done  too,  and  the  Marquis  went  on  with  his 
upper.  He  was  half  way  through  it,  when  he  again 
bopped  with  his  glass  in  his  hand,  hearing  the  sound  of 
^heels.  It  came  on  briskly,  and  came  up  to  the  front  of 
he  chateau. 

"Ask  who  is  arrived?  ” 

It  was  the  nephew  of  Monseigneur.  He  had  been  some 
3W  leagues  behind  Monseigneur,  early  in  the  afternoon. 


112 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


He  had  diminished  the  distance  rapidly,  but  not  so  rapidly 
as  to  come  up  with  Monseigneur  on  the  road.  He  had 
heard  of  Monseigneur,  at  the  posting-houses,  as  being  be- 
fore him. 

He  was  to  be  told  (said  Monseigneur)  that  supper 
awaited  him  then  and  there,  and  that  he  was  prayed  to 
come  to  it.  In  a little  while  he  came.  He  had  been  known 
in  England  as  Charles  Darnay. 

Monseigneur  received  him  in  a courtly  manner,  but  they 
did  not  shake  hands. 

You  left  Paris  yesterday,  sir?  ” he  said  to  Monseigneur, 
as  he  took  his  seat  at  table. 

Yesterday.  And  you? 

I come  direct.’^ 

From  London? 

'^Yes.” 

You  have  been  a long  time  coming,”  said  the  Marquis, 
with  a smile. 

‘‘On  the  contrary;  I come  direct.” 

“ Pardon  me ! I mean,  not  a long  time  on  the  journey; 
a long  time  intending  the  journey.” 

“ I have  been  detained  by  ” — the  nephew  stopped  a mo- 
ment in  his  answer — “various  business.” 

“Without  doubt,”  said  the  polished  uncle. 

So  long  as  a servant  was  present,  no  other  words  passed 
between  them.  When  coffee  had  been  served  and  they 
were  alone  together,  the  nephew,  looking  at  the  uncle  and 
meeting  the  eyes  of  the  face  that  was  like  a fine  mask, 
opened  a conversation. 

“ I have  come  back,  sir,  as  you  anticipate,  pursuing  the 
object  that  took  me  away.  It  carried  me  into  great  and 
unexpected  peril;  but  it  is  a sacred  object,  and  if  it  had 
carried  me  to  death  I hope  it  would  have  sustained  me.” 

“Hot  to  death,”  said  the  uncle;  “it  is  not  necessary  to 
say,  to  death.” 

“ I doubt,  sir,”  returned  the  nephew,  “ whether,  if  it  had 
carried  me  to  the  utmost  brink  of  death,  you  would  have 
cared  to  stop  me  there.” 

The  deepened  marks  in  the  nose,  and  the  lengthening  of 
the  fine  straight  lines  in  the  cruel  face,  looked  ominous  as 
to  that;  the  uncle  made  a graceful  gesture  of  protest, 
which  was  so  clearly  a slight  form  of  good  breeding  that  it 
was  not  reassuring. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


113 


“Indeed,  sir,”  pursued  the  nephew,  “for  anything  I 
know,  you  may  have  expressly  worked  to  give  a more  sus- 
picious appearance  to  the  suspicious  circumstances  that  sur- 
rounded me.” 

no,”  said  the  uncle,  pleasantly. 

But,  however  that  may  be,  ” resumed  the  nephew,  glanc- 
ing at  him  with  deep  distrust,  “ I know  that  your  diplo- 
macy would  stop  me  by  any  means,  and  would  know  no 
^scruple  as  to  means.” 

, “My  friend,  I told  you  so,”  said  the  uncle,  with  a fine 
, pulsation  in  the  two  marks.  “Do  me  the  favour  to  recall 
that  I told  you  so,  long  ago.” 

“I  recall  it.” 

' “Thank  you,”  said  the  Marquis — very  sweetly  indeed 
His  tone  lingered  in  the  air,  almost  like  the  tone  of’  a 
musical  instrument. 


“In  effect,  sir,”  pursued  the  nephew,  “I  believe  it  to  be 
lat  once  your  bad  fortune,  and  my  good  fortune,  that  has 
kept  me  out  of  a prison  in  France  here.” 

I do  not  quite  understand,”  returned  the  uncle,  sipping 
jliis^coifee.  ^‘Dare  I ask  you  to  explain?  ” 

“I  believe  that  if  you  were  not  in  disgrace  with  the 
^ourt,  and  had  not  been  overshadowed  by  that  cloud  for 
i^ears  past,  a letter  de  cachet  would  have  sent  me  to  some 
:ortress  indefinitely.” 

It  is  possible,”  said  the  uncle,  with  great  calmness. 

' or  the  honour  of  the  family,  I could  even  resolve  to  in- 
./Ommode  you  to  that  extent.  Pray  excuse  me ! ” 

I ^ perceive  that,  happily  for  me,  the  Eeceptioii  of  the 
lay  before  yesterday  was,  as  usual,  a cold  one,”  observed 
he  nephew. 

“I  would  not  say  happily,  my  friend,”  returned  the 
incle,  with  refined  politeness;  “I  would  not  be  sure  of 
fiat.  A good  opportunity  for  consideration,  surrounded  by 
fie  advantages  of  solitude,  might  influence  your  destiny  to 
■ar  greater  advantage  than  you  influence  it  for  yourself 
^>ut  It  IS  useless  to  discuss  the  question.  I am,  as  you 
lay,  at  a disadvantage.  These  little  instruments  of  correc- 
ion,  these  gentle  aids  to  the  power  and  honour  of  families 
lese  slight  favours  that  might  so  incommode  you,  are  only 
) be  obtained  now  by  interest  and  importunity.  They  are 
augfit  by  so  many,  and  they  are  granted  (comparatively  i 
) so  few!  It  used  not  to  be  so,  but  France  in  all  such 
o 


114 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 


things  is  changed  for  the  worse.  Our  not  remote  ancestors 
held  the  right  of  life  and  death  over  the  surrounding  vul- 
gar. From  this  room,  many  such  dogs  have  been  taken 
out  to  be  hanged;  in  the  next  room  (my  bedroom),  one 
fellow,  to  our  knowledge,  was  poniarded  on  the  spot  for 
professing  some  insolent  delicacy  respecting  his  daughter 
— his  daughter?  We  have  lost  many  privileges;  a new 
philosophy  has  become  the  mode;  and  the  assertion  of  our 
station  in  these  days,  might  (I  do  not  go  so  far  as  to  say 
would,  but  might)  cause  us  real  inconvenience.  All  very 
bad,  very  bad ! ” 

The  Marquis  took  a gentle  little  pinch  of  snuff,  and 
shook  his  head;  as  elegantly  despondent  as  he  could  be- 
comingly be  of  a country  still  containing  himself,  that  great 
means  of  regeneration. 

We  have  so  asserted  our  station,  both  in  the  old  time 
and  in  the  modern  time  also,’’  said  the  nephew,  gloomily, 
that  I believe  our  name  to  be  more  detested  than  any 
name  in  France.” 

^^Let  us  hope  so,”  said  the  uncle.  ^‘Detestation  of  the 
high  is  the  involuntary  homage  of  the  low.” 

“There  is  not,”  pursued  the  nephew,  in  his  former  tone, 
“ a face  I can  look  at,  in  all  this  country  round  about  us, 
which  looks  at  me  with  any  deference  on  it  but  the  dark 
deference  of  fear  and  slavery.” 

“ A compliment,  ” said  the  Marquis,  “ to  the  grandeur  of 
the  family,  merited  by  the  manner  in  which  the  family  has 
sustained  its  grandeur.  Hah ! ” And  he  took  another 
gentle  little  pinch  of  snuff,  and  lightly  crossed  his  legs. 

But,  when  his  nephew,  leaning  an  elbow  on  the  table, 
covered  his  eyes  thoughtfully  and  dejectedly  with  his  hand, 
the  fine  mask  looked  at  him  sideways  with  a stronger 
concentration  of  keenness,  closeness,  and  dislike,  than 
was  comportable  with  its  wearer’s  assumption  of  indiffer- 
ence. 

“ Eepression  is  the  only  lasting  philosophy.  The  dark 
deference  of  fear  and  slavery,  my  friend,”  observed  the 
Marquis,  “ will  keep  the  dogs  obedient  to  the  whip,  as  long 
as  this  roof,”  looking  up  to  it,  “shuts  out  the  sky.” 

That  might  not  be  so  long  as  the  Marquis  supposed.  If 
a picture  of  the  chateau  as  it  was  to  be  a very  few  years 
hence,  and  of  fifty  like  it  as  they  too  weie  to  be  a very  fev 
years  hence,  could  have  been  shown  to  iiiin  that  night,  he 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


115 


might  have  been  at  a loss  to  claim  his  own  from  the  ghastly, 
fire-charred,  plunder- wrecked  ruins.  As  for  the  roof  he 
vaunted,  he  might  have  found  that  shutting  out  the  sky  in 
a new  way — to  wit,  for  ever,  from  the  eyes  of  the  bodies 
into  which  its  lead  was  fired,  out  of  the  barrels  of  a hun- 
dred thousand  muskets. 

Meanwhile,”  said  the  Marquis,  will  preserve  the 
honour  and  repose  of  the  family,  if  you  will  not.  But  you 
must  be  fatigued.  Shall  we  terminate  our  conference  for 
the  night?  ” 

“A  moment  more.” 

“An  hour,  if  you  please.” 

“Sir,”  said  the  nephew,  “we  have  done  wrong,  and  are 
reaping  the  fruits  of  wrong.” 

“ We  have  done  wrong?  ” repeated  the  Marquis,  with  an 
inquiring  smile,  and  delicately  pointing,  first  to  his  nephew, 
then  to  himself. 

“Our  family;  our  honourable  family,  whose  honour  is  of 
so  much  account  to  both  of  us,  in  such  different  ways. 
Even  in  my  father’s  time,  we  did  a world  of  wrong,  injur- 
ing every  human  creature  who  came  between  us  and  our 
pleasure,  whatever  it  was.  Why  need  I speak  of  my  fa- 
ther’s time,  when  it  is  equally  yours?  Can  I separate  my 
father’s  twin- brother,  joint  inheritor,  and  next  successor, 
from  himself?  ” 

“Death  has  done  that!”  said  the  Marquis. 

“And  has  left  me,”  answered  the  nephew,  “bound  to  a 
5ystem  that  is  frightful  to  me,  responsible  for  it,  but  pow- 
erless in  it;  seeking  to  execute  the  last  request  of  my  dear 
nother’s  lips,  and  obey  the  last  look  of  my  dear  mother’s 
eyes,  which  implored  me  to  have  mercy  and  to  redress;  and 
tortured  by  seeking  assistance  and  power  in  vain.” 

“ Seeking  them  from  me,  my  nephew,”  said  the  Marquis, 
:ouching  him  on  the  breast  with  his  forefinger — they  were 
low  standing  by  the  hearth — “you  will  for  ever  seek  them 
n vain,  be  assured.” 

I Every  fine  straight  line  in  the  clear  whiteness  of  his  face, 
vas  cruelly,  craftily,  and  closely  compressed,  while  he 
^Jtood  looking  quietly  at  his  nephew,  with  his  snuff-box  in 
lis  hand.  Once  again  he  touched  him  on  the  breast,  as 
though  his  finger  were  the  fine  point  of  a small  sword,  with 
vhich,  in  delicate  finesse,  he  ran  him  through  the  body^ 
ind  said, 


116 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


My  friend,  I will  die,  perpetuating  the  system  under 
which  I have  lived/^ 

When  he  had  said  it,  he  took  a culminating  pinch  of 
snuff,  and  put  his  box  in  his  pocket. 

‘‘Better  to  be  a rational  creature,”  he  added  then,  after 
ringing  a small  bell  on  the  table,  “ and  accept  your  natural 
destiny.  But  you  are  lost.  Monsieur  Charles,  I see.” 
“This  property  and  France  are  lost  to  me,”  said  the 
nephew,  sadly;  “I  renounce  them.” 

“Are  they  both  yours  to  renounce?  France  may  be,  but 
is  the  property?  It  is  scarcely  worth  mentioning;  but,  is 
it  yet?  ” 

“ I had  no  intention,  in  the  words  I used,  to  claim  it  yet 

If  it  passed  to  me  from  you,  to-morrow ” 

“Which  I have  the  vanity  to  hope  is  not  probable.” 

“ — or  twenty  years  hence- ” 

“You  do  me  too  much  honour,”  said  the  Marquis; 
“still,  I prefer  that  supposition.” 

“ — I would  abandon  it,  and  live  otherwise  and  else- 
where. It  is  little  to  relinquish.  What  is  it  but  a wilder- 
ness of  misery  and  ruin ! ” 

“ Hah ! ” said  the  Marquis,  glancing  round  the  luxurious 
room. 

“To  the  eye  it  is  fair  enough,  here;  but  seen  in  its 
integrity,  under  the  sky,  and  by  the  daylight,  it  is  a crum- 
bling tower  of  waste,  mismanagement,  extortion,  debt, 
mortgage,  oppression,  hunger,  nakedness,  and  suffering.” 

“ Hah ! ” said  the  Marquis  again,  in  a well-satisfied  man- 
ner. 

“ If  it  ever  becomes  mine,  it  shall  be  put  into  some  hands 
better  qualified  to  free  it  slowly  (if  such  a thing  is  possi- 
ble) from  the  weight  that  drags  it  down,  so  that  the  miser- 
able people  who  cannot  leave  it  and  who  have  been  long 
wrung  to  the  last  point  of  endurance,  may,  in  another  gen- 
eration, suffer  less;  but  it  is  not  for  me.  There  is  a curse 
on  it,  and  on  all  this  land.” 

“And  you?”  said  the  uncle.  “Forgive  my  curiosity: 
do  you,  under  your  new  philosophy,  graciously  intend  tc 
live?  ” 

“ I must  do,  to  live,  what  others  of  my  countrymen,  ever 
with  nobility  at  their  backs,  may  have  to  do  some  day — 
work.” 

“ In  England,  for  example?  ” 


117 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

family  honour,  sir,  is  safe  from  me  in  this 
ountry.  The  family  name  can  suffer  from  me  in  no  other 
or  I bear  it  in  no  other.”  ’ 

The  ringing  of  the  bell  had  caused  the  adjoining  bed- 
hamber  to  be  lighted.  It  now  shone  brightly,  through  the 
oor  of  communication.  The  Marquis  looked  that  way, 
nd  listened  for  the  retreating  step  of  his  valet. 

“England  is  very  attractive  to  you,  seeing  how  indiffer- 
at  y you  have  prospered  there,”  he  observed  then,  turning 
is^calm  lace  to  his  nephew  with  a smile. 

I lia,ye  already  said,  that  for  my  prospering  there,  I 
n sensible  I may  be  indebted  to  you,  sir.  For  the  rest 
IS  my  Eefuge.”  ’ 

/‘They  say,  those  boastful  English,  that  it  is  the  Refuge 
: many.  You  know  a compatriot  who  has  found  a Refuge 
lere?  A Doctor?  ” ® 

“ Yes.” 


“ With  a daughter?  ” 

“Yes.” 

the  Marquis.  “You  are  fatigued.  Good 

As  he  bent  his  head  in  his  most  courtly  manner,  there 
IS  a secrecy  in  his  smiling  face,  and  he  conveyed  an  air 
mystery  to  those  words,  which  struck  the  eyes  and  ears 
his  nephew  forcibly.  At  the  same  time,  the  thin  straight 
les  of  the  setting  of  the  eyes,  and  the  thin  straight  lips, 

1 in  the  nose,  curved  with  a sarcasm  that 

Iked  handsomely  diabolic. 

“ Y^, ” repeated  the  Marquis.  “ A Doctor  with  a daugh- 
'•  r es.  So  commences  the  new  philosophy ! You  are 
agued.  Good  night ! ” 

It  would  have  been  of  as  much  avail  to  interrogate  any 
ae  foce  outside  the  chateau  as  to  interrogate  that  face  of 
' door  looked  at  him,  in  vain,  in  passing  on  to 

‘ Good  night ! ” said  the  uncle.  “ I look  to  the  pleasure 
seeing  you  again  in  the  morning.  Good  repose ! Light 
msieur  my  nephew  to  his  chamber  there! — And  burn 
bed,  if  you  will,”  he  added  to 
Qself,  before  he  rang  his  little  bell  again,  and  summoned 
, valet  to  his  own  bedroom. 

The  valeWme  and  gone,  Monsieur  the  Marquis  walked 
and  -VO  m r.g  chamber-robe,  to  prepare  himself 


118 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


gently  for  sleep,  that  hot  still  night.  Rustling  about  the 
room,  his  softly-slippered  feet  making  no  noise  on  the  floor, 
he  moved  like  a refined  tiger  t — looked  like  some  enchanted 
marquis  of  the  impenitently  wicked  sort,  in  story,  whose 
periodical  change  into  tiger  form  was  either  just  going  off, 
or  just  coming  on. 

He  moved  from  end  to  end  of  his  voluptuous  bedroom, 
looking  again  at  the  scraps  of  the  day’s  journey  that  came 
unbidden  into  his  mind;  the  slow  toil  up  the  hill  at  sunset, 
the  setting  sun,  the  descent,  the  mill,  the  prison  on  the 
crag,  the  little  village  in  the  hollow,  the  peasants  at  the 
fountain,  and  the  mender  of  roads  with  his  blue  cap  point- 
ing out  the  chain  under  the  carriage.  That  fountain  sug- 
gested the  Paris  fountain,  the_  little  bundle  lying  on  the 
step,  the  women  bending  over  it,  and  the  tall  man  with  his 

arms  up,  crying,  “ Dead ! ” • « j I 

I am  cool  now,”  said  IMonsieur  the  Marquis,  and  may 

go  to  bed.”  . , .t. 

So,  leaving  only  one  light  burning  on  the  large  heartn. 
he  let  his  thin  gauze  curtains  fall  around  him,  and  heard 
the  night  break  its  silence  with  a long  sigh  as  he  composec 

himself  to  sleep.  , , v ji  i.  ii. 

The  stone  faces  on  the  outer  walls  stared  blindly  at  tin 

black  night  for  three  heavy  hours;  for  three  heavy  hours 
the  horses  in  the  stables  rattled  at  their  racks,  the  dog 
barked,  and  the  owl  made  a noise  with  very  little  resem 
blance  in  it  to  the  noise  conventionally  assigned  to  the  ow| 
by  men-poets.  But  it  is  the  obstinate  custom  of  such  creat: 
ures  hardly  ever  to  say  what  is  set  down  for  them. 

For  three  heavy  hours,  the  stone  faces  of  the  chateau 
lion  and  human,  stared  blindly  at  the  night.  Dead  darh 
ness  lay  on  all  the  landscape,  dead  darkness  added  its  ow 
hush  to  the  hushing  dust  on  all  the  roads.  The  buna, 
place  had  got  to  the  pass  that  its  little  heaps  of  poor  gra^ 
were  undistinguishable  from  one  another;  the  figure  on  t 
Cross  might  have  come  down,  for  anything  that  could  t 
seen  of  it.  In  the  village,  taxers  and  taxed  were  iat 
asleep.  Dreaming,  perhaps,  of  banquets,  as  the  starv^ 
usually  do,  and  of  ease  and  rest,  as  the  driven  slave- 
the  yoked  ox  may,  its  lean  inhabitants  slept  soundly, 

were  fed  and  freed.  b 

The  fountain  in  the  village  flowed  unseen  am/  uiiJiet 
and  the  fountain  at  the  chateau  dropped  -‘useeri  .md  » t 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


119 


heard— both  melting  away,  like  the  minutes  that  were  fall- 
ing from  the  spring  of  Time— through  three  dark  hours. 
Then,  the  grey  water  of  both  began  to  be  ghostly  in  the 
light,  and  the  eyes  of  the  stone  faces  of  the  chateau  were 
opened. 

Lighter  and  lighter,  until  at  last  the  sun  touched  the  tops 
of  the  still  trees,  and  poured  its  radiance  over  the  hill.  In 
the  glow,  the  water  of  the  chateau  fountain  seemed  to  turn 
to  blood,  and  the  stone  faces  crimsoned.  The  carol  of  the 
birds  was  loud  and  high,  and,  on  the  weather-beaten  sill  of 
the  great  window  of  the  bed-chamber  of  Monsieur  the  Mar- 
ijuis,  one  little  bird  sang  its  sweetest  song  with  all  its 
might.  At  this,  the  nearest  stone  face  seemed  to  stare 
amazed,  and,  with  open  mouth  and  dropped  under-iaw 
looked  awe-stricken.  ’’  ’ 

Now,  the  sun  was  full  up,  and  movement  began  in  the 
village.  Casement  windows  opened,  crazy  doors  were  un- 
barred, and  people  came  forth  shivering— chilled,  as  yet 
by  the  new  sweet  air.  Then  began  the  rarely  lightened 
:oil  of  the  day  among  the  village  population.  Some,  to  the 
tountaiu;  some,  to  the  fields;  men  and  women  here,  to  dig 
iind  delve;  men  and  women  there,  to  see  to  the  poor  live 
stock,  and  lead  the  bony  cows  out,  to  such  pasture  as  could 
oe  found  by  the  roadside.  In  the  church  and  at  the  Cross, 

I Reeling  figure  or  two;  attendant  on  the  latter  prayers,  the 
^ ^ breakfast  among  the  weeds  at  its  foot, 

ihe  chateau  awoke  later,  as  became  its  quality,  but 
^ gradually  and  surely.  First,  the  lonely  boar-spears 
ind  knives  of  the  chase  had  been  reddened  as  of  old;  then 
lad  gleamed  trenchant  in  the  morning  sunshine;  now 
loors  and  windows  were  thrown  open,  horses  in  their 
tables  looked  round  over  their  shoulders  at  the  light  and 
reshness  pouring  in  at  doorways,  leaves  sparkled  and 
ustled  at  iron-grated  windows,  dogs  pulled  hard  at  their 
hams,  and  reared  impatient  to  be  loosed. 

All  these  trivial  incidents  belonged  to  the  routine  of  life 
nd  the  return  of  morning.  Surely,  not  so  the  ringing  of 
e great  bell  of  the  chateau,  nor  the  running  up  and  down 
he  stairs;  nor  the  hurried  figures  on  the  terrace;  nor  the 
ooting  and  tramping  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  nor 
he  quick  saddling  of  horses  and  riding  away? 

What  winds  conveyed  this  hurry  to  the  grizzled  mender 
t roads,  already  at  work  on  the  hill-top  beyond  the  vil 


120 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


lage,  with  his  day’s  dinner  (not  much  to  carry)  lying  in  a 
bundle  that  it  was  worth  no  crow’s  while  to  peck  at,  on  a 
heap  of  stones?  Had  the  birds,  carrying  some  grains  of  it 
to  a distance,  dropped  one  over  him  as  they  sow  chance 
seeds?  Whether  or  no,  the  mender  of  roads  ran,  on  the 
sultry  morning,  as  if  for  his  life,  down  the  hill,  kiree-high 
in  dust,  and  never  stopped  till  he  got  to  the  fountain. 

All  the  people  of  the  village  were  at  the  fountain,  stand- 
ing about  in  their  depressed  manner,  and  whispering  low, 
but  showing  no  other  emotions  than  grim  curiosity  and  sur- 
prise. The  led  cows,  hastily  brought  in  and  tethered  to 
anything  that  would  hold  them,  were  looking  stupidly  on, 
or  lying  down  chewing  the  cud  of  nothing  particularly  re- 
paying their  trouble,  which  they  had  picked  up  in  their  in- 
terrupted saunter.  Some  of  the  people  of  the  chateau,  and 
some  of  those  of  the  posting-house,  and  all  the  taxing  au- 
thorities, were  armed  more  or  less,  and  were  crowded  on 
the  other  side  of  the  little  street  in  a purposeless  way,  that 
was  highly  fraught  with  nothing.  Already,  the  mender  of 
roads  had  penetrated  into  the  midst  of  a poup  of  fifty  par- 
ticular friends,  and  was  smiting  himself  in  the  breast  with 
his  blue  cap.  What  did  all  this  portend,  and  what  por- 
tended the  swift  hoisting-up  of  Monsieur  Gabelle  behind  a 
servant  on  horseback,  and  the  conveying  away  of  the  said 
Gabelle  (double-laden  though  the  horse  was),  at  a gallop, 
like  a new  version  of  the  German  ballad  of  Leonora? 

It  portended  that  there  was  one  stone  face  too  many,  up 

at  the  chateau.  _ _ • • 

The  Gorgon  had  surveyed  the  building  again  in  the 
night,  and  had  added  the  one  stone  face  wanting;  the  stone 
face  for  which  it  had  waited  through  about  two  hundred 

^^It^lay  back  on  the  pillow  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis.  It 
was  like  a fine  mask,  suddenly  startled,  made  angry,  and 
petrified.  Driven  home  into  the  heart  of  the  stone  figure 
attached  to  it,  was  a knife.  Round  its  hilt  was  a frill  of 
paper,  on  which  was  scrawled : _ 

Dviv 6 hiififi  fast  to  his  towh,  This^fvoififi  Jacques. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


121 


j CHAPTER  X. 

TWO  PROMISES. 

More  months,  to  the  number  of  twelve,  had  come  and 
I gone,  and  Mr.  Charles  Darnay  was  established  in  England 
. as  a higher  teacher  of  the  French  language  who  was  con- 
’ versant  with  French  literature.  In  this  age,  he  would  have 
; been  a Professor;  in  that  age,  he  was  a Tutor.  He  read 
with  young  men  who  could  find  any  leisure  and  interest  for 
;the  study  of  a living  tongue  spoken  all  over  the  world,  and 
he  cultivated  a taste  for  its  stores  of  knowledge  and  fancy. 
He  could  write  of  them,  besides,  in  sound  English,  and 
render  them  into  sound  English.  Such  masters  were  not 
I at  that  time  easily  found;  Princes  that  had  been,  and 
Kings  that  were  to  be,  were  not  yet  of  the  Teacher  class, 
and  no  ruined  nobility  had  dropped  out  of  Tellson’s  ledgers 
jto  turn  cooks  and  carpenters.  As  a tutor,  whose  attain- 
ments made  the  student^s  way  unusually  pleasant  and  pro- 
fitable, and  as  an  elegant  translator  who  brought  some- 
, thing  to  his  work  besides  mere  dictionary  knowledge,  young 
Mr.  Darnay  soon  became  known  and  encouraged.  He  was 
(^well  acquainted,  moreover,  with  the  circumstances  of  his 
country,  and  those  were  of  ever-growing  interest.  So,  with 
^reat  perseverance  and  untiring  industry,  he  prospered. 

In  London,  he  had  expected  neither  to  walk  on  pave- 
nents  of  gold,  nor  to  lie  on  beds  of  roses;  if  he  had  had 
iny  such  exalted  expectation,  he  would  not  have  prospered. 
de  had  expected  labour,  and  he  found  it,  and  did  it,  and 
^nade  the  best  of  it.  In  this,  his  prosperity  consisted. 

A certain  portion  of  his  time  was  passed  at  Cambridge, 
vhere  he  read  with  undergraduates  as  a sort  of  tolerated 
'.muggier  who  drove  a contraband  trade  in  European  lan- 
guages, instead  of  conveying  Greek  and  Latin  through  the 
Custom-house.  The  rest  of  his  time  he  passed  in  London. 
^^Now,  from  the  days  when  it  was  always  summer  in 
Cden,  to  these  days  when  it  is  mostly  winter  in  fallen  lati- 
udes,  the  world  of  a man  has  invariably  gone  one  way — 
lharles  Darnay's  way— the  way  of  the  love  of  a woman. 

I He  had  loved  Lucie  Manette  from  the  hour  of  his  dan- 


122 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


ger.  He  had  never  heard  a sound  so  sweet  and  dear  as  the 
sound  of  her  compassionate  voice;  he  had  never  seen  a face 
so  tenderly  beautiful,  as  hers  when  it  was  confronted  with 
his  own  on  the  edge  of  the  grave  that  had  been  dug  for 
him.  But,  he  had  not  yet  spoken  to  her  on  the  subject; 
the  assassination  at  the  deserted  chateau  far  away  beyond 
the  heaving  water  and  the  long,  long,  dusty  roads — the 
solid  stone  chateau  which  had  itself  become  the  mere  mist 
of  a dream- — had  been  done  a year,  and  he  had  never  yet, 
by  so  much  as  a single  spoken  word,  disclosed  to  her  the 
state  of  his  heart. 

That  he  had  his  reasons  for  this,  he  knew  full  well.  It 
was  again  a summer  day  when,  lately  arrived  in  London 
from  his  college  occup^,tion,  he  turned  into  the  quiet  corner 
in  Soho,  bent  on  seeking  an  opportunity  of  opening  his 
mind  to  Doctor  Manette.  It  was  the  close  of  the  summer 
day,  and  he  knew  Lucie  to  be  out  with  Miss  Pross. 

He  found  the  Doctor  reading  in  his  arm-chair  at  a win- 
dow. The  energy  which  had  at  once  supported  him  under 
his  old  sufferings  and  aggravated  their  sharpness,  had  been 
gradually  restored  to  him.  He  was  now  a very  energetic 
man  indeed,  with  great  firmness  of  purpose,  strength  of 
resolution,  and  vigour  of  action.  In  his  recovered  energy 
he  was  sometimes  a little  fitful  and  sudden,  as  he  had  at 
first  been  in  the  exercise  of  his  other  recovered  faculties; 
but,  this  had  never  been  frequently  observable,  and  had 
grown  more  and  more  rare. 

He  studied  much,  slept  little,  sustained  a great  deal  of 
fatigue  with  ease,  and  was  equably  cheerful.  To  him, 
now  entered  Charles  Darnay,  at  sight  of  whom  he  laid  aside 
his  book  and  held  out  his  hand. 

‘^Charles  Darnay!  I rejoice  to  see  you.  We  have  been 
counting- on  your  return  these  three  or  four  days  past.  Mr. 
Stryver  and  Sydney  Carton  were  both  here  yesterday,  and 
both  made  you  out  to  be  more  than  due.^^ 

‘^I  am  obliged  to  them  for  their  interest  in  the  matter,’^ 
he  answered,  a little  coldly  as  to  them,  though  very 
warmly  as  to  the  Doctor.  Miss  Manette ’’ 

^^Is  well,’^  said  the  Doctor,  as  he  stopped  short,  ‘‘and 
your  return  will  delight  us  all.  She  has  gone  out  on  some 
household  matters,  but  will  soon  be  home. 

“ Doctor  Manette,  I knew  she  was  from  home.  I took  the 
opportunity  of  her  being  from  home,  to  beg  to  speak  to  you.’^ 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


123 


There  was  a blank  silence. 

“ Yes?  said  the  Doctor,  with  evident  constraint. 
^ Bring  your  chair  here,  and  speak  on.’’ 

He  complied  as  to  the  chair,  but  appeared  to  find  the 
peaking  on  less  easy. 

“ I have  had  the  happiness.  Doctor  Manette,  of  being  so 
ntiinate  here,”  so  he  at  length  began,  ^^for  some  year  and 
L half,  that  I hope  the  topic  on  which  I am  about  to  touch 
nay  not ” 

He  was  stayed  by  the  Doctor’s  putting  out  his  hand  to 
top  him.  When  he  had  kept  it  so  a little  while,  he  said, 
[rawing  it  back : 

“Is  Lucie  the  topic? ” 

: “She  is.” 

“ It  is  hard  for  me  to  speak  of  her  at  any  time.  It  is 
^ery  hard  for  me  to  hear  her  spoken  of  in  that  tone  of 
^ours,  Charles  Darnay.” 

! “ It  is  a tone  of  fervent  admiration,  true  homage,  and 
leep  love.  Doctor  Manette ! ” he  said  deferentially. 

, There  was  another  blank  silence  before  her  father  re- 
joined : 

“I  believe  it.  I do  you  justice;  I believe  it.” 

His  constraint  was  so  manifest,  and  it  was  so  manifest, 
00,  that  it  originated  in  an  unwillingness  to  approach  the 
ubject,  that  Charles  Darnay  hesitated. 

‘ “ Shall  I go  on,  sir?  ” 

Another  blank. 

“Yes,  go  on.” 

“ You  anticipate  what  I would  say,  though  you  cannot 
mow  how  earnestly  I say  it,  how  earnestly  I feel  it,  with- 
out knowing  my  secret  heart,  and  the  hopes  and  fears  and 
' nxieties  with  which  it  has  long  been  laden.  Dear  Doctor 
/lanette,  I love  your  daughter  fondly,  dearly,  disinterest- 
dly,  devotedly.  If  ever  there  were  love  in  the  world,  I 
ove  her.  You  have  loved  yourself;  let  your  old  love  speak 
or  me ! ” 

The  Doctor  sat  with  his  face  turned  away,  and  his  eyes 
►ent  on  the  ground.  At  the  last  words,  he  stretched  out 
lis  hand  again,  hurriedly,  and  cried: 

“Not  that,  sir!  Let  that  be!  I adjure  you,  do  not  re* 
all  that!” 

His  cry  was  so  like  a cry  of  actual  pain,  that  it  rang  in 
Charles  Darnay ’s  ears  long  after  he  had  ceased.  He  mo- 


124 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


tioned  with  the  hand  he  had  extended,  and  it  seemed  to  b( 
an  appeal  to  Daniay  to  pause.  The  latter  so  received  it, 
and  remained  silent. 

I ask  your  pardon,’’  said  the  Doctor,  in  a subdued  tone, 
after  some  moments.  do  not  doubt  your  loving  Lucie: 
you  may  be  satisfied  of  it.” 

He  turned  towards  him  in  his  chair,  but  did  not  look  a1 
him,  or  raise  his  eyes.  His  chin  dropped  upon  his  hand, 
and  his  white  hair  overshadowed  his  face : 

Have  you  spoken  to  Lucie?  ” 

Nor  written?  ” 

Never.” 

It  would  be  ungenerous  to  affect  not  to  know  that  youi 
self-denial  is  to  be  referred  to  your  consideration  for  hei 
father.  Her  father  thanks  you.” 

He  offered  his  hand;  but  his  eyes  did  not  go  with  it. 
know,”  said  Darnay,  respectfully,  ^‘how  can  I fail  tc 
know,  Doctor  Manette,  I who  have  seen  you  together  fron 
day  to  day,  that  between  you  and  Miss  Manette  there  is  ar 
affection  so  unusual,  so  touching,  so  belonging  to  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  it  has  been  nurtured,  that  it  can  have 
few  parallels,  even  in  the  tenderness  between  a father  anc 
child.  I know,  Doctor  Manette — how  can  I fail  to  know— 
that,  mingled  with  the  affection  and  duty  of  a daughtei 
who  has  become  a woman,  there  is,  in  her  heart,  towards* 
you,  all  the  love  and  reliance  of  infancy  itself.  I kno\^ 
that,  as  in  her  childhood  she  had  no  parent,  so  she  is 
devoted  to  you  with  all  the  constancy  and  fervour  of  hei 
present  years  and  character,  united  to  the  trustfulness  and 
attachment  of  the  early  days  in  which  you  were  lost  to  her 
I know  perfectly  well  that  if  you  had  been  restored  to  hei 
from  the  world  beyond  this  life,  you  could  hardly  be  in- 
vested, in  her  sight,  with  a more  sacred  character  thar 
that  in  which  you  are  always  with  her.  I know  that  wher 
she  is  clinging  to  you,  the  hands  of  baby,  girl,  and  woman, 
all  in  one,  are  round  your  neck.  I know  that  in  loving  yor 
she  sees  and  loves  her  mother  at  her  own  age,  sees  anc 
loves  you  at  my  age,  loves  her  mother  broken-hearted,  love! 
you  through  your  dreadful  trial  and  in  your  blessed  res- 
toration. I have  known  this,  night  and  day,  since  I have 
known  you  in  your  home.” 

Her  father  sat  silent,  with  his  face  bent  down.  Hi! 


126 


TWO  CITIES. 


Quickened;  but  he  repressed  all  other 


Manette,  always  knowing  this,  always  see- 
- you  with  this  hallowed  light  about  you,  I have 

irborne,  and  forborne,  as  long  as  it  was  in  the  nature  of 
I’au  to  do  it.  I have  felt,  and  do  even  now  feel,  that  to 
■ing  my  love — even  mine — between  you,  is  to  touch  your 
story  with  something  not  quite  so  good  as  itself.  But  I 
ve  her.  Heaven  is  my  vatness  that  I love  her!  ” 

“I  believe  it,”  answered  her  father,  mournfully.  “I 
ive  thought  so  before  now.  I believe  it.” 

“But,  do  not  believe,”  said  Darnay,  upon  whose  ear  the 
ournful  voice  struck  with  a reproachful  sound,  “ that  if 
y fortune  were  so  cast  as  that,  being  one  day  so  happy  as 
make  her  my  wife,  I must  at  any  time  put  any  separa- 
m between  her  and  you,  I could  or  would  breathe  a word 
what  I now  say.  Besides  that  I should  know  it  to  be 
peless,  I should  know  it  to  be  a baseness.  If  I had  any 
ch  possibility,  even  at  a remote  distance  of  years,  har- 
■ured  in  my  thoughts,  and  hidden  in  my  heart— if  it  e'  er 
d been  there  if  it  ever  could  be  there — I could  not  now 
ich  this  honoured  hand.” 


He  laid  his  own  upon  it  as  he  spoke. 

No,  dear  Doctor  Manette.  Like  you,  a voluntary  exile 
)m  Prance;  like  you,  driven  from  it  by  its  distractions, 
pressions,  and  miseries;  like  you,  striving  to  live  away 
)in  it  by  my  own  exertions,  and  trusting  in  a happier  fu- 
'e;  I look  only  to  sharing  your  fortunes,  sharing  your 
3 and  home,  and  being  faithful  to  you  to  the  death, 
•t  to  divide  with  Lucie  her  privilege  as  your  child,  com- 
aion,  and  friend;  but  to  come  in  aid  of  it,  and  bind  her 
ser  to  yon,  if  such  a thing  can  be.” 

His  touch  still  lingered  on  her  father’s  hand.  Answer- 
: the  touch  for  a moment,  but  not  coldly,  her  father 
ted  his  hands  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair,  and  looked  up 
the  first  time  since  the  beginning  of  the  conference.  A 
uggle  was  evidently  in  his  face;  a struggle  with  that  oc- 
ional  look  which  had  a tendency  in  it  to  dark  doubt  and 
ad. 


‘ You  speak  so  feelingly  and  so  manfully,  Charles  Dar- 
q that  I thank  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  will  open  all 
heart— or  nearly  so.  Have  you  any  reason  to  believe 
t Lucie  loves  you? 


126 


A TALE  OF  T 


“None.  As  yet,  none.” 

“ Is  it  the  immediate  object  of  this 
may  at  once  ascertain  that,  with  my  know 
“ Not  even  so.  I might  not  have  the  hope 
it  for  weeks;  I might  (mistaken  or  not  mistaken)  hav^tha 
hopefulness  to-morrow.” 

“ Do  you  seek  any  guidance  from  me?  ” 

“ I ask  none,  sir.  But  I have  thought  it  possible  tha 
you  might  have  it  in  your  power,  if  you  should  deem  i 
right,  to  give  me  some.” 

“ Do  you  seek  any  promise  from  me?  ” 

“ I do  seek  that.” 

“What  is  it?” 

“ I well  understand  that,  without  you,  I could  have 
hope.  I well  understand  that,  even  if  Miss  Manette  hel 
me  at  this  moment  in  her  innocent  heart — do  not  think 
have  the  presumption  to  assume  so  much — I could  retai 
no  place  in  it  against  her  love  for  her  father.  ” 

“ If  that  be  so,  do  you  see  what,  on  the  other  hand. 


involved  in  it?  ” , ^ i_  <;  ..i. 

“ I understand  equally  well,  that  a word  from  her  tath( 
in  any  suitor’s  favour,  would  outweigh  herself  and  all  tl 
world.  For  which  reason.  Doctor  Manette,”  said  Darna: 
modestly  but  firmly,  “ I would  not  ask  that  word,  to  sa^ 
my  life.” 

“I  am  sure  of  it.  Charles  Darnay,  mysteries  arise  oi 
of  close  love,  as  well  as  out  of  wide  division;  in  the  form' 
case,  they  are  subtle  and  delicate,  and  difficult  to  pen 
trate.  My  daughter  Lucie  is,  in  this  one  respect,  such 
mystery  to  me;  I can  make  no  guess  at  the  state  of  h 
heart 

“ May  I ask,  sir,  if  you  think  she  is ” As  he  hes 

tated,  her  father  supplied  the  rest. 

“ Is  sought  by  any  other  suitor?  ” 

“ It  is  what  I meant  to  say.” 

Her  father  considered  a little  before  he  answered : 

“ You  have  seen  Mr.  Carton  here,  yourself.  Mr.  Stry^ 
is  here  too,  occasionally.  If  it  be  at  all,  it  can  only  be 
one  of  these.” 

“ Or  both,”  said  Darnay. 

“I  had  not  thought  of  both;  I should  not  think  eith 
likely.  You  want  a promise  from  me.  Tell  me  what  it  n 

“ It  is,  that  if  Miss  Manette  should  bring  to  you  at  a 


A TALE  OE  TWO  CITIES. 


127 


dme,  on  her  own  part,  such  a confidence  as  I have  ventured 
0 lay  before  you,  }Ou  will  bear  testimony  to  what  I have 
.aid,  and  to  your  belief  in  it.  I hope  you  may  be  able  to 
hink  so  well  of  me,  as  to  urge  no  influence  against  me.  I 
ay  nothing  more  of  my  stake  in  this;  this  is  what  I ask. 
:he  condition  on  which  I ask  it,  and  which  you  have  an 
ndoubted  right  to  require,  I will  observe  immediately.’^ 
give  the  promise,”  said  the  Doctor,  “without  any 
ondition.  I believe  your  object  to  be,  purely  and  truth- 
ully,  as  you  have  stated  it.  I believe  your  intention  is  to 
erpetuate,  and  not  to  weaken,  the  ties  between  me  and  my 
ther  and  far  dearer  self.  If  she  should  ever  tell  me  that 
ou  are  essential  to  her  perfect  happiness,  I will  give  her  to 

ou.  If  there  were— Charles  Darnay,  if  there  were ” 

The  young  man  had  taken  his  hand  gratefully;  their 
ands  were  joined  as  the  Doctor  spoke  : 

“—any  fancies,  any  reasons,  any  apprehensions,  any- 
-ling  whatsoever,  new  or  old,  against  the  man  she  really 
)ved— the  direct  responsibility  thereof  not  lying  on  his 
ead — they  should  all  be  obliterated  for  her  sake.  She  is 
v’erything  to  me;  more  to  me  than  suffering,  more  to  me 

lan  wrong,  more  to  me Well!  This  is  idle  talk.” 

So  strange  was  the  way  in  which  he  faded  into  silence, 
ad  so  strange  his  fixed  look  when  he  had  ceased  to  speak, 
lat  Darnay  felt  his  own  hand  turn  cold  in  the  hand  that 
owly  released  and  dropped  it. 

''You  said  something  to  me,”  said  Doctor  Manette, 
reaknig  into  a smile.  “ What  was  it  you  said  to  me?  ” 

He  was  at  a loss  how  to  answer,  until  he  remembered 
aving  spoken  of  a condition.  Eelieved  as  his  mind  re- 
Brted  to  that,  he  answered : 

Your  confidence  in  me  ought  to  be  returned  with  full 
aifidence  on  my  part.  My  present  name,  though  but 
ightly  changed  from  my  mother’s,  is  not,  as  you  will  re- 
ember, my  own.  I wish  to  tell  you  what  that  is,  and 
hy  I am  in  England.” 

I'  Stop ! ” said  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais. 

I wish  it,  that  I may  the  better  deserve  your  confi- 
mce,  and  have  no  secret  from  vou  ” 

"Stop!” 

For  an  instant,  the  Doctor  even  had  his  two  hands  at  his 
rs;  for  another  instant,  even  had  his  two  hands  laid  on 
a-rnay’s  lips. 


128 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


‘‘  Tell  me  when  I c.sk  you,  not  now.  ^ If  your  suit  should 
prosper,  if  Lucie  should  love  you,  you  shall  tell  me  o^ ; 
your  marriage  morning.  Do  you  promise?  \ 

‘‘Willingly.’’  ;|j 

“ Give  me  your  hand.  She  will  be  home  directly,  and  it 
is  better  she  should  not  see  us  together  to-night.  Go',^ 
God  bless  yyu ! ” 

It  was  dark  when  Charles  Darnay  left  him,  and  it  was 
an  hour  later  and  darker  when  Lucie  came  home;  she  hur- 
ried into  the  room  alone — for  Miss  Pross  had  gone  straight] 
up-stairs  — and  was  surprised  to  find  his  reading-chair 
empty. 

“ My  father ! ” she  called  to  him.  Father  dear ! ” 
Nothing  was  said  in  answer,  but  she  heard  a low  ham- 
mering sound  in  his  bedroom.  Passing  lightly  across  the 
intermediate  room,  she  looked  in  at  his  door  and  came  run- 
ning back  frightened,  crying  to  herself,  with  her  blood  all 
chilled,  What  shall  I do ! What  shall  I do ! ” 

Her  uncertainty  lasted  but  a moment;  she  hurried  back, 
and  tapped  at  his  door,  and  softly  called  to  him.  The 
noise  ceased  at  the  sound  of  her  vjDice,  and  he  presently) 
came  out  to  her,  and  they  walked  up  and  down  togethei 
for  a long  time. 

She  came  down  from  her  bed,  to  look  at  him  in  his  sleej 
that  night.  He  slept  heavily,  and  his  tray  of  shoemaking 
tools,  and  his  old  unfinished  work,  were  all  as  usual. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A COMPANION  PICTURE. 

“ Sydney,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  on  that  selfsame  night,  o 
morning,  to  his  jackal;  “mix  another  bowl  of  punch; 
have  something  to  say  to  you.” 

Sydney  had  been  working  double  tides  that  night,  an 
the  night  before,  and  the  night  before  that,  and  a goo' 
many  nights  in  succession,  making  a grand  clearance  amon 
Mr.  Stryver’s  papers  before  the  setting  in  of  the  long  Vc^ 
cation.  The  clearance  was  effected  at  last;  the  Stryver  ai 
rears  were  handsomely  fetched  up;  everything  was  got  n 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


129 


3f  until  November  should  come  with  its  fogs  atmospheric 
and  fogs  legal,  and  bring  grist  to  the  mill  again. 

Sydney  was  none  the  livelier  and  none  the  soberer  for  so 
I much  application.  It  had  taken  a deal  of  extra  wet-towel- 
I ing  to  pull  him  through  the  night;  a correspondingly  ex- 
Jra  quantity  of  wine  had  preceded  the  towelling;  and  he 
vas  in  a very  damaged  condition,  as  he  now  pulled  his  tur- 
i 3an  off  and  threw  it  into  the  basin  in  which  he  had  steeped 
t at  intervals  for  the  last  six  hours. 

''Are  you  mixing  that  other  bowl  of  punch?’’  said 
I Stry ver  the  portly,  with  his  hands  in  his  waistband,  glanc- 
ng  round  from  the  sofa  where  he  lay  on  his  back. 

"lam.” 

^ "Now,  look  here ! I am  going  to  tell  you  something  that 
vill  rather  surprise  you,  and  that  perhaps  will  make  you 
i hiiik  me  not  quite  as  shrewd  as  you  usually  do  think  me. 

. intend  to  marry.  ” 

I "Z>oyou?” 

^ " Yes.  And  not  for  money.  What  do  you  say  now? 

"I  don’t  feel  disposed  to  say  much.  Who  is  she*^ ” 

] "Guess.” 

, "Do  I know  her?  ” 

"Guess.” 

^ " I am  not  going  to  guess,  at  five  o’clock  in  the  morning, 
rith  my  brains  frying  and  sputtering  in  my  head.  If  you 
mnt  me  to  guess,  you  must  ask  me  to  dinner.” 

"Well  chen.  I’ll  tell  you,”  said  Stryver,  coming  slowly 
iito  a chitting  posture.  " Sydney,  I rather  despair  of  mak- 
ig  m^^self  intelligible  to  you,  because  you  are  such  an  in- 
ensiVle  dog.” 

Ind  you,”  returned  Sydney,  busy  concocting  the  punch, 
such  a sensitive  and  poetical  spirit.” 

“ Come ! ” rejoined  Stryver,  laughing  boastfully,  “ though 
don  t prefer  any  claim  to  being  the  soul  of  Eomance 
•br  i hope  I know  better),  still  I am  a tenderer  sort  of  fel- 
•w  than  you^ 

You  are  a luckier,  if  you  mean  that.” 

I don  t mean  that.  I mean  I am  a man  of  more 

Wore ” 

^ Say  gallantry,  while  you  are  about  it,”  suggested  Car- 

I Dll  say  gallantry.  My  meaning  is  that  I am  a 

^ an,  said  Stryver,  inflating  himself  at  his  friend  as  he 


130 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


made  the  punch,  ^‘who  cares  more  to  be  agreeable,  who 
takes  more  pains  to  be  agreeable,  who  knows  better  how  to 
be  agreeable,  in  a womaids  society,  than  you  do.’’ 

‘^Go  on,”  said  Sydney  Carton. 

^^No;  but  before  I go  on,”  said  Stryver,  shaking  his 
head  in  his  bullying  way,  I’ll  have  this  out  with  you. 
You’ve  been  at  Doctor  Manette’s  house  as  much  as  I have, 
or  more  than  I have.  Why,  I have  been  ashamed  of  your 
moroseness  there ! Your  manners  have  been  of  that  silent 
and  sullen  and  hang-dog  kind,  that,  upon  my  life  and  soul, 
I have  been  ashamed  of  you,  Sydney ! ” 

It  should  be  very  beneficial  to  a man  in  your  practice 
at  the  bar,  to  be  ashamed  of  anything,”  returned  Sydney; 
^^you  ought  to  be  much  obliged  to  me.” 

^Wou  shall  not  get  off  in  that  way,”  rejoined  Stryver, 
shouldering  the  rejoinder  at  him;  ‘^no,  Sydney,  it’s  my 
duty  to  tell  you — and  I tell  you  to  your  face  to  do  you 
good — that  you  are  a de-vilish  ill-conditioned  fellow  in  that 
sort  "of  society.  You  are  a disagreeable  fellow.” 

Sydney  drank  a bumper  of  the  punch  he  had  made,  and 
laughed. 

Look  at  me ! ” said  Stryver,  squaring  himself;  I have 
less  need  to  make  myself  agreeable  than  you  have,  being 
more  independent  in  circumstances.  Y hy  do  I do  it?  ” 

I never  saw  you  do  it  yet,”  muttered  Carton. 

''I  do  it  because  it’s  politic;  I do  it  on  principle.  And 
look  at  me!  I get  on.” 

‘^You  don’t  get  on  with  your  account  of  youx  matri- 
monial intentions,”  answered  Carton,  with  a careless  air; 
‘‘I  wish  you  would  keep  to  that.  As  to  me — will  you 
never  understand  that  I am  incorrigible?  ” 

He  asked  the  question  with  some  appearance  of  scom. 
'Won  have  no  business  to  be,  incorrigible,”  was  i.is 
friend’s  answer,  delivered  in  no  very  soothing  tone. 

I have  no  business  to  be,  at  all,  that  I know  of,”  siid 
Sydney  Carton.  “ Who  is  the  lady?  ” I 

‘^Now,  don’t  let  my  announcement  of  the  name  niak^j 
you  uncomfortable,  Sydney,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  preparing 
him  with  ostentatious  friendliness  for  the  disclosure  he  w:is 
about  to  make,  “because  I know  you  don’t  mean  half  yca 
say;  and  if  you  meant  it  all,  it  would  be  of  no  importanc«.| 
I make  this  little  preface,  because  you  once  mentioned  thai 
Arnnno-  Iprlv  f-.n  TTip,  in  sliffhtinff  terms.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


131 


“I  did?” 

“Certainly;  and  in  these  chambers.” 

Sydney  Carton  looked  at  his  punch  and  looked  at  his 
(complacent  friend;  drank  his  punch  and  looked  at  his 
complacent  friend. 

“You  made  mention  of  the  young  lady  as  a golden- 
haired doll.  The  young  lady  is  Miss  Manette.  If  you  had 
been  a fellow  of  any  sensitiveness  or  delicacy  of  feeling  in 
that  kind  of  way,  Sydney,  I might  have  been  a little  re- 
sentful of  your  employing  such  a designation ; but  you  are 
not.  You  want  that  sense  altogether;  therefore  I am  no 
more  annoyed  when  I think  of  the  expression,  than  I 
should  be  annoyed  by  a man’s  opinion  of  a picture  of  mine, 
who  had  no  eye  for  pictures : or  of  a piece  of  music  of 
mine,  who  had  no  ear  for  music.” 

Sydney  Carton  drank  the  punch  at  a great  rate;  drank 
it  by  bumpers,  looking  at  his  friend. 

“Now  you  know  all  about  it,  Syd,”  said  Mr.  Stryver. 

“ I don’t  care  about  fortune : she^  is  a charming  creature, 
and  I have  made  up  my  mind  to  please  myself : on  the 
whole,  I think  I can  afford  to  please  myself.  She  will 
have  in  me  a man  already  pretty  well  off,  and  a rapidly 
rising  man,  and  a man  of  some  distinction : it  is  a piece  of 
good  fortune  for  her,  but  she  is  worthy  of  good  fortune. 
Are  you  astonished?  ” 

Carton,  still  drinking  the  punch,  rejoined,  “Why  should 
I be  astonished?  ” 

“ You  approve?  ” 

Carton,  still  drinking  the  punch,  rejoined,  “Why  should 
I not  approve?  ” 

“Well!”  said  his  friend  Stryver,  “you  take  it  more 
3asily  than  I fancied  you  would,  and  are  less  mercenary  on 
tny  behalf  than  I thought  you  would  be;  though,  to  be 
mre,  you  know  well  enough  by  this  time  that  your  ancient 
;hum  is  a man  of  a pretty  strong  will.  Yes,  Sydney,  I 
lave  had  enough  of  this  style  of  life,  with  no  other  as  a 
!hange  from  it;  I feel  that  it  is  a pleasant  thing  for  a man 
io  have  a home  when  he  feels  inclined  to  go  to  it  (when  he 
loesn  t,  he  can  stay  away),  and  I feel  that  Mi^s  Manette 
yill  tell  well  in  any  station,  and  will  always  do  me  credit. 

>0  I have  made  up  my  mind.  And  now,  Sydney,  old  boy, 

. want  to  say  a word  to  you  about  your  prospects.  You  are 
n a bad  way,  you  know;  you  really  are  in  a bad  way. 


132 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


You  don’t  know  the  value  of  money,  you  live  hard,  you’ll 
knock  up  one  of  these  days,  and  be  ill  and  poor;  you  really 
ought  to  think  about  a nurse.” 

The  prosperous  patronage  with  which  he  said  it,  made 
him  look  twice  as  big  as  he  was,  and  four  times  as 
offensive. 

^^Now,  let  me  recommend  you,”  pursued  Stryver,  ‘Ho 
look  it  in  the  face.  I have  looked  it  in  the  face,  in  my 
different  way;  look  it  in  the  face,  you,  in  your  different 
way.  Marry.  Provide  somebody  to  take  care  of  you. 
Never  mind  your  having  no  enjoyment  of  women’s  society, 
nor  understanding  of  it,  nor  tact  for  it.  Find  out  some  re- 
spectable woman  with  a little  propei-ty — somebody  in  the 
landlady  way,  or  lodging-letting  way — and  marry  her, 
against  a rainy  day.  That’s  the  kind  of  thing  for  you. 
Now  think  of  it,  Sydney.” 

“ I’ll  think  of  it.”  said  Sydney, 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  FELLOW  OF  DELICACY. 

Mr.  Stryver  having  made  up  his  mind  to  that  magnan- 
imous bestowal  of  good  fortune  on  the  Doctor’s  daughter, 
resolved  to  make  her  happiness  known  to  her  before  he 
left  town  for  the  Long  Vacation.  After  some  mental  de- 
bating of  the  point,  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  would 
be  as  well  to  get  all  the  preliminaries  done  with,  and  they 
could  then  arrange  at  their  leisure  whether  he  should  give 
her  his  hand  a week  or  two  before  Michaelmas  Term,  or  in 
the  little  Christmas  vacation  between  it  and  Hilary. 

As  to  the  strength  of  his  case,  he  had  not  a doubt  about 
it,  but  clearly  saw  his  way  to  the  verdict.  Argued  with 
the  jury  on  substantial  worldly  grounds — the  only  grounds 
ever  worth  taking  into  account — it  was  a plain  case,  and 
had  not  a weak  spot  in  it.  He  called  himself  for  the  plain- 
tiff, there  was  no  getting  over  his  evidence,  the  counsel  for 
the  defendant  threw  up  his  brief,  and  the  jury  did  not  even 
turn  to  consider.  After  trying  it,  Stryver,  C.  J.,  was  sab 
isfied  that  no  plainer  case  could  be. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


133 


Accordingly,  Mr.  Stryver  inaugurated  the  Long  Vacation 
with  a formal  proposal  to  take  Miss  Manette  to  Vauxhall 
Gardens;  that  failing,  to  Ranelagh;  that  unaccountably 
failing  too,  it  behoved  him  to  present  himself  in  Soho,  and 
there  declare  his  noble  mind. 

Towards  Soho,  therefore,  Mr.  Stryver  shouldered  his 
way  from  the  Temple,  while  the  bloom  of  the  Long  Vaca- 
tion's infancy  was  still  upon  it.  Anybody  who  had  seen 
him  projecting  himself  into  Soho  while  he  was  yet  on  Saint 
Dunstan^s  side  of  Temple  Bar,  bursting  in  his  full-blown 
way  along  the  pavement,  to  the  jostlement  of  all  weaker 
people,  might  have  seen  how  safe  and  strong  he  was. 

His  way  taking  him  past  Tellson^s,  and  he  both  banking 
at  Tellson’s  and  knowing  Mr.  Lorry  as  the  intimate  friend 
of  the  Manettes,  it  entered  Mr.  Stryver ’s  mind  to  enter 
the  bank,  and  reveal  to  Mr.  Lorry  the  brightness  of  the 
Soho  horizon.  So,  he  pushed  open  the  door  with  the  weak 
rattle  in  its  throat,  stumbled  down  the  two  steps,  got  past 
the  two  ancient  cashiers,  and  shouldered  himself  into  the 
musty  back  closet  where  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  great  books  ruled 
I for  figures,  with  perpendicular  iron  bars  to  his  window  as 
if  that  were  ruled  for  figures  too,  and  everything  under  the 
clouds  were  a sum. 

Halloa ! said  Mr.  Stryver.  How  do  you  do?  I 
hope  you  are  well!  ’’ 

It  was  Stryver’ s grand  peculiarity  that  he  always  seemed 
too  big  for  any  place,  or  space.  He  was  so  much  too  big 
for  Tellson’s,  that  old  clerks  in  distant  corners  looked  up 
jWith  looks  of  remonstrance,  as  though  he  squeezed  them 
against  the  wall.  The  House  itself,  magnificently  reading 
the  paper  quite  in  the  far-off  perspective,  lowered  dis- 
jpleased,  as  if  the  Stryver  head  had  been  butted  into  its  re- 
sponsible waistcoat. 

, The  discreet  Mr.  Lorry  said,  in  a sample  tone  of  the 
voice  he  would  recommend  under  the  circumstances,  How 
do  you  do,  Mr.  Stryver?  How  do  you  do,  sir?  ” and  shook 
hands.  There  was  a peculiarity  in  his  manner  of  shaking 
hands,  always  to  be  seen  in  any  clerk  at  Tellson’s  who 
3iiook  hands  with  a customer  when  the  House  pervaded  the 
fir.  He  shook  in  a self-abnegating  way,  as  one  who  shook 
tor  Tellson  and  Co. 

Can  I do  anything  for  you,  Mr,  Stryver?  ” asked  Mr. 
Lorry,  in  his  business  character. 


134 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Why,  no,  thank  you;  this  is  a private  visit  to  your- 
self, Mr.  Lorry;  I have  come  for  a private  word.” 

^VOh  indeed!”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  bending  down  his  ear, 
while  his  eye  strayed  to  the  House  afar  off. 

‘‘I  am  going,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  leaning  his  arms  confi- 
dentially on  the  desk : whereupon,  although  it  was  a large 
double  one,  there  appeared  to  be  not  half  desk  enough  for 
him : I am  going  to  make  an  offer  of  myself  in  mar- 

riage to  your  agreeable  little  friend.  Miss  Manette,  Mr. 
Lorry.” 

Oh  dear  me  I ” cried  Mr.  Lorry,  rubbing  his  chin,  and 
looking  at  his  visitor  dubiously. 

Oh  dear  me,  sir?  ” repeated  Stryver,  drawing  back. 
‘‘Oh  dear  you,  sir?  What  may  your  meaning  be,  Mr. 
Lorry?  ” 

“My  meaning,”  answered  the  man  of  business,  “is,  of 
course,  friendly  and  appreciative,  and  that  it  does  you  the 
greatest  credit,  and— in  short,  my  meaning  is  everything 
you  could  desire.  But — really,  you  know,  Mr.  Stryver 

” Mr.  Lorry  paused,  and  shook  his  head  at  him  in 

the  oddest  manner,  as  if  he  were  compelled  against  his 
will  to  add,  internally,  “you  know  there  really  is  so  much 
too  much  of  you ! ” 

“Well!”  said  Stryver,  slapping  the  desk  with  his  con- 
tentious hand,  opening  his  eyes  wider,  and  taking  a long 
breath,  “if  I understand  you,  Mr.  Lorry,  I’ll  be  hanged!” 

Mr.  Lorry  adjusted  his  little  wig  at  both  ears  as  a means 
towards  that  end,  and  bit  the  feather  of  a pen. 

— n it  all,  sir!  ” said  Stryver,  staring  at  him,  “am  I 
not  eligible?  ” 

“Oh  dear  yes!  Yes.  Oh  yes,  you’re  eligible!”  said 
Mr.  Lorry.  “If  you  say  eligible,  you  are  eligible.” 

“Am  I not  prosperous?  ” asked  Stryver. 

“Oh!  if  you  come  to  prosperous,  you  are  prosperous,” 
said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ And  advancing?  ” 

“If  you  come  to  advancing  you  know,”  said  Mr,  Lorry, 
delighted  to  be  able  to  make  another  admission,  “nobody 
can  doubt  that.” 

“Then  what  on  earth  is  your  meaning,  Mr  Lorry?  ” deir 
manded  Stryver,  perceptibly  crestfallen. 

“Well!  I Were  you  going  there  now?”  asked  Mr 

Lorry 


IT  ALL.  SIR  I AM  I NOT  ELIGIBLE? 


\ 


jT 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


135 


**  Straight ! ” said  Stry  ver,  with  a plump  of  his  fist  on 
the  desk. 

‘‘Then  I think  I wouldn’t,  if  I was  you.” 

“Why?”  said  Stryver.  “Now,  I’ll  put  you  in  a cor- 
ner,” forensically  shaking  a forefinger  at  him.  “ You  are  a 
man  of  business  and  bound  to  have  a reason.  State  your 
reason.  Why  wouldn’t  you  go?  ” 

“Because,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “I  wouldn’t  go  on  such  an 
‘object  without  having  some  cause  to  believe  that  I should 
succeed.” 

“D — n me!”  cried  Stryver,  “but  this  beats  everything.” 
Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  distant  House,  and  glanced  at 
the  angry  Stryver. 

“Here’s  a man  of  business — man  of  years — a man  of  ex- 
perience— in  a Bank,”  said  Stryver;  “and  having  summed 
up  three  leading  reasons  for  complete  success,  he  says 
there’s  no  reason  at  all!  Says  it  with  his  head  on!”  Mr. 
Stryver  remarked  upon  the  peculiarity  as  if  it  would  have 
been  infinitely  less  remarkable  if  he  had  said  it  with  his 
head  off. 

“When  I speak  of  success,  I speak  of  success  with  the 
young  lady;  and  when  I speak  of  causes  and  reasons  to 
make  success  probable,  I speak  of  causes  and  reasons  that 
will  tell  as  such  with  the  young  lady.  The  young  lady, 
my  good  sir,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  mildly  tapping  the  Stryver 
arm,  “the  young  lady.  The  young  lady  goes  before  all.” 
“Then  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Lorry,”  said  Stryver, 
squaring  his  elbows,  “that  it  is  your  deliberate  opinion 
that  the  young  lady  at  present  in  question  is  a mincing 
Fool?  ” 

“Not  exactly  so.  I mean  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Stryver,”  said 
Mr.  Lorry,  reddening,  “that  I will  hear  no  disrespectful 
word  of  that  young  lady  from  any  lips;  and  that  if  I knew 
any  man — which  I hope  I do  not — whose  taste  was  so 
coarse,  and  whose  temper  was  so  overbearing,  that  he  could 
not  restrain  himself  from  speaking  disrespectfully  of  that 
young  lady  at  this  desk,  not  even  Tellson’s  should  prevent 
niy  giving  him  a piece  of  my  mind.” 

The  necessity  of  being  angry  in  a suppressed  tone  had 
put  Mr.  Stryver’ s blood-vessels  into  a dangerous  state  when 
it  was  his  turn  to  be  angry;  Mr,  Lorry’s  veins,  methodical 
as  their  courses  could  usually  be,  were  in  no  better  state 
now  it  was  his  turn. 


136 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


“That  is  what  I mean  to  tell  you,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 
Pray  let  there  be  no  mistake  about  it.” 

Mr.  Stryver  sucked  the  end  of  a ruler  for  a little  while, 
and  then  stood  hitting  a tune  out  of  his  teeth  with  it! 
which  probably  gave  him  the  toothache.  He  broke  the 
awkward  silence  by  saying; 

“ This  is  something  new  to  me,  Mr.  Lorry.  You  delib- 
erately advise  me  not  to  go  up  to  Soho  and  offer  myself— 
myself,  Stryver  of  the  King’s  Bench  bar?  ” 

Do  you  ask  me  for  my  advice,  Mr.  Stryver?  ” 

“ Yes,  I do.” 

“Very  good.  Then  I give  it,  and  you  have  repeated  it 
correctly.” 

And  all  I can  say  of  it  is,”  laughed  Stryver  with  a 
vexed  laugh,  “ that  this — ha,  ha ! — beats  everything  past 
present,  and  to  come.”  ’ 

“Now  understand  me,”  pursued  Mr.  Lorry.  “As  a man 
of  business,  I am  not  justified  in  saying  anything  about 
this  matter,  for,  as  a man  of  business,  I know  nothing  of 
it.  ^ But,  as  an  old  fellow,  who  has  carried  Miss  Manette 
in  his  arms,  who  is  the  trusted  friend  of  Miss  Manette  and 
of  her  father  too,  and  who  has  a great  affection  for  them 
both,  I have  spoken.  The  confidence  is  not  of  my  seeking, 
recollect.  Now,  you  think  I may  not  be  right?  ” 

“Not  I!”  said  Stryver,  whistling.  ’“I  can’t  undertake 
to  find  third  parties  in  common  sense;  I can  only  find  it 
for  myself.  I suppose  sense  in  certain  quarters;  you  sup- 
pose mincing  bread-and-butter  nonsense.  It’s  new  to  me 
but  you  are  right,  I dare  say.”  ’ 

“ What  I suppose,  Mr.  Stryver,  I claim  to  characterise 
for  myself.  And  understand  me,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Lorry, 
quickly  flushing  again,  “I  will  not— not  even  at  Tellson’s 
have  it  characterised  for  me  by  any  gentleman  breath- 
ing.” 

“ There ! I beg  your  pardon ! ” said  Stryver 
“Granted.  Thank  you  Well,  Mr.  Stryver,  I was  about 
to  say it  might  be  painful  to  you  to  find  yourself  mis- 
taken, it  might  be  painful  to  Doctor  Manette  to  have  the 
task  of  being  explicit  with  you,  it  might  be  very  painful  to 
Miss  Manette  to  have  the  task  of  being  explicit  with  you. 
You  know  the  terms  upon  which  I have  the  honour  and 
happiness  to  stand  with  the  family  If  you  please,  com- 
mitting you  in  no  way,  representing  you  in  no  way,  I will 


137 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


undertake  to  correct  my  advice  by  the  exercise  of  a little 
new  observation  and  judgment  expressly  brought  to  bear 
upon  It.  If  you  should  then  be  dissatisfied  with  it,  you 
;3an  but  test  its  soundness  for  yourself;  if,  on  the  other 
hand,  you  shoilld  be  satisfied  with  it,  and  it  should  be 
,wnat  It  now  is,  it  may  spare  all  sides  what  is  best  spared. 
What  do  you  say?  ” ^ 

“ How  long  would  you  keep  me  in  town?  ” 
t “ ■.  a question  of  a few  hours.  I could  go 

|.o  boho  m the  evening,  and  come  to  your  chambers  after- 
,vards.” 

I I say  yes,”  said  Stryver:  “I  won’t  go  up  there 

I low,  1 ain  not  so  hot  upon  it  as  that  comes  to;  I say  yes, 
;.ndj  shall  expect  you  to  look  in  to-night.  Good  morn- 


Then  Mr  Stryver  turned  and  burst  out  of  the  Bank, 
ausing  such  a concussion  of  air  on  his  passage  through, 
|Aat  to  stand  up  against  it  bowing  behind  the  two  counters, 
Jequired  the  utmost  remaining  strength  of  the  two  ancient 
* u venerable  and  feeble  persons  were  always 

een  by  the  public  in  the  act  of  bowing,  and  were  popularly 
|elieved,  when  they  had  bowed  a customer  out,  still  to 
! eep  on  bowing  m the  empty  office  until  they  bowed  an- 
tner  customer  in. 

The  barrister  was  keen  enough  to  divine  that  the  banker 
ould  not  have  gone  so  far  in  his  expression  of  opinion 
u any  less  solid  ground  than  moral  certainty.  Unpre- 
■ared  as  he  was  for  the  large  pill  he  had  to  swallow,  he 
at  It  down.  “And  now,”  said  Mr.  Stryver,  shaking  his 
irensic  forefinger  at  the  Temple  in  general,  when  it  was 
awn,  my  way  out  of  this,  is,  to  put  you  all  in  the 

It  was  a bit  of  the  art  of  an  Old  Bailey  tactician,  in 
hich  he  found  great  relief.  “ You  shall  not  put  me  in  the 
rong,  young  lady,”  said  Mr.  Stryver;  “I’ll  do  that  for 

Accordingly,  when  Mr.  Lorry  called  that  night  as  late 
ten  o clock  Mr.  Stryver,  among  a quantity  of  books  and 
-pers  littered  out  for  the  purpose,  seemed  to  have  nothing 
3S  on  his  mind  than  the  subject  of  the  morning.  He  even 
owed  surprise  when  he  saw  Mr.  Lorry,  and  was  alto- 
« w V'  preoccupied  state. 

1 Well ! ” said  that  good-natured  emissary,  after  a full 


138 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


half-hour  of  bootless  attempts  to  bring  him  round  to  the 
question.  “ I have  been  to  Soho.” 

“To  Soho?”  repeated  Mr.  Stryver,  coldly.  “Oh,  to  be 
sure ! What  am  I thinking  of ! ” , 

“And  I have  no  doubt,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “that  I was 
right  in  the  conversation  we  had.  My  opinion  is  confirmed, 
and  I reiterate  my  advice.” 

“I  assure  you,”  returned  Mr.  Stryver,  in  the  friendliest 
way,  “ that  I am  sorry  for  it  on  your  account,  and  sorry  for 
it  on  the  poor  father’s  account.  I know  this  must  always 
be  a sore  subject  with  the  family;  let  us  say  no  more  about 
it.” 

“I  don’t  understand  you,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

“I  dare  say  not,”  rejoined  Stryver,  nodding  his  head  in 
a smoothing  and  final  way;  “ no  matter,  no  matter.” 

“ But  it  does  matter,”  Mr.  Lorry  urged. 

“No  it  doesn’t;  I assure  you  it  doesn’t.  Having  sup- 
posed that  there  was  sense  where  there  is  no  sense,  a,nd  a 
laudable  ambition  where  there  is  not  a laudable  ambition, 
I am  well  out  of  my  mistake,  and  no  harm  is  done.  Young 
women  have  committed  similar  follies  often  before,  and 
have  repented  them  in  poverty  and  obscurity  often  before. 
In  an  unselfish  aspect,  I am  sorry  that  the  thing  is  dropped, 
because  it  would  have  been  a bad  thing  for  me  in  a worldly 
point  of  view;  in  a selfish  aspect  I am  glad  that  the  thing 
has  dropped,  because  it  would  have  been  a bad  thing  or 
me  in  a worldly  point  of  view— it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say 
1 could  have  gained  nothing  by  it.  There  is  no  harm  at 
all  done.  I have  not  proposed  to  the  young  lady,  and,  be- 
tween ourselves,  I am  by  no  means  certain,  on  reflection, 
that  I ever  should  have  committed  myself  to  tha,t  extent. 
Mr.  Lorry,  you  cannot  control  the  mincing  vanities  and 
giddinesses  of  empty-headed  girls;  you  must  not  expect  tc 
do  it,  or  you  will  always  be  disappointed.  Now,  pray  say 
no  more  about  it.  I tell  you,  I regret  it  on  account  oi 
otliers,  but  I am  satisfied  on  my  own  account.  And  I ait 
really  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  allowing  me  to  sounc 
you,  and  for  giving  me  your  advice;  you  know  the  young 
lady  better  than  I do;  you  were  right,  it  never  would  havfl 

(fonc.^^  , 

Mr.  Lorry  was  so  taken  aback,  that  he  looked  quit# 
stupidly  at  Mr.  Stryver  shouldering  him  towards  the  door 
with  an  appearance  of  showering  generosity,  forbearance 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


139 


and  good-will,  on  his  erring  head,  “Make  the  best  of  it 
my  dear  sir,”  said  Stryver;  “say  no  more  about  it;  thank 
you  again  for  allowing  me  to  sound  you;  good-night!  ” 

Mr.  Lorij  was  out  in  the  night,  before  he  knew  where 

at  hirceil^g  ®ofa,  winking 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  FELLOW  OF  NO  DELICACY. 

If  Sydney  Carton  ever  shone  anywhere,  he  certainly 

tWp  f Manette.  He  had  beeJ 

Ifn!  a’  bad  always  been  the 

to  iT*!i  “Trt  ben  he  cared 

to  talk,  he  talked  well;  but,  the  cloud  of  caring  for  nothing 

which  overshadowed  him  with -such  a fatal  darkness,  wfs 
l^eiy  rarely  pierced  by  the  light  within  him. 

something  for  the  streets  that  en- 
I ed  that  house,  and  for  the  senseless  stones  that  made 

vamlP^ityf  ^ vaguely  and  unhappily 

vandeied  there,  when  wine  had  brought  no  transitoryglad- 

^ daybreak  revealed  his  solitary 

iv^ir  Lo  there,  and  still  lingering  there  when  the 

eaut^rnf®^  brought  into  strong  relief,  removed 

•eauties  of  architecture  in  spires  of  churches  and  lofty 
aiiidings,  as  perhaps  the  quiet  time  brought  some  sense  of 

dnd'  forgotten  and  unattainable,  into  his 

nd.  Of  late,  the  neglected  bed  in  the  Temple  Court  had 
nown  him  more  scantily  than  ever;  and  often  when  he 
it  110  longer  than  a few  minutes, 
e Lad  got  up  again,  and  haunted  that  neighbourhood, 
n a day  m August,  when  Mr.  Stryver  (after  notifying 

attL^”f  f ^ that  marrying 

hm.  fl  ^ ^ t delicacy  into  Devonshire,  and 

.me  bowers  in  the  City  streets  had 

rsSip.f  ® ^bem  for  the  worst,  of  health  for 

ill  trnd  fu*’  *be  oldest,  Sydney’s  feet 

ss  htf ii'i'csolute  and  purpose- 
orkb.a  m f*  ."Hiiiiin.tod  by  an  intention,  and,  in  the 

r’s  d ^ ^ intention,  they  took  him  to  the  Doc- 


140 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


He  was  shown  up- stairs,  and  found  Lucie  at  her  work, 
alone.  She  had  never  been  quite  at  her  ease  with  him, 
and  received  him  with  some  little  embarrassment  as  he 
seated  himself  near  her  table.  But,  looking  up  at  his  face 
in  the  interchange  of  the  first  few  common-places,  she  ob- 
served a change  in  it. 

I fear  you  are  not  well,  Mr.  Carton!  ” 

''  Ho.  But  the  life  I lead.  Miss  Manette,  is  not  con- 
ducive to  health.  What  is  to  be  expected  of,  or  by,  such 
profligates? 

“Is  it  not — forgive  me;  I have  begun  the  question  on 
my  lips— a pity  to  live  no  better  life?  ’’ 

“ God  knows  it  is  a shame ! 

“ Then  why  not  change  it?  ” 

Looking  gently  at  him  again,  she  was  surprised  and  sad- 
dened to  see  that  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  There  were 
tears  in  his  voice  too,  as  he  answered : 

“ It  is  too  late  for  that.  I shall  never  be  better  than  I 
am.  I shall  sink  lower,  and  be  worse. 

He  leaned  an  elbow  on  her  table,  and  covered  his  eyes 
with  his  hand.  The  table  trembled  in  the  silence  that  fol- 
lowed. 

She  had  never  seen  him  softened,  and  was  much  dis- 
tressed. He  knew  her  to  be  so,  without  looking  at  her, 

and  said : , i i r.  j? 

“Pray  forgive  me.  Miss  Manette.  I break  down  before 

the  knowledge  of  what  I want  to  say  to  you.  Will  you 
hear  me? 

“If  it  will  do  you  any  good,  Mr.  Carton,  if  it  would 
make  you  happier,  it  would  make  me  very  glad ! ” 

“ God  bless  you  for  your  sweet  compassion!  ” 

He  unshaded  his  face  after  a little  while,  and  spoke 

steadily.  , . ^ 

“ Don’t  be  afraid  to  hear  me.  Don’t  shrink  from  any- 
thing I say.  I am  like  one  who  died  young.  All  my  life 

might  have  been.”  , ^ 

“ No,  Mr.  Carton.  I am  sure  that  the  best  part  ot  it 
might  still  be;  I am  sure  that  you  might  be  much,  much 
worthier  of  yourself.” 

“ Say  of  you.  Miss  Manette,  and  although  I know  better 
—although  in  the  mystery  of  my  own  wretched  heart  I 
know  better— I shall  never  forget  it ! ” 

She  was  pale  and  trembling.  He  came  to  her  relief  witti 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES 


141 


la  fixed  despair  of  himself  which  made  the  interview  unlike 
(any  other  that  could  have  been  holden. 

I If  it  had  been  possible,  Miss  Manette,  that  you  could 
r pave  returned  the  love  of  the  man  you  see  before  you — 
pelf- flung  away,  wasted,  drunken,  poor  creature  of  misuse 

you  know  him  to  be— he  would  have  been  conscious  this 
day  'and  hour,  in  spite  of  his  happiness,  that  he  would 
bring  you  to  misery,  bring  you  to  sorrow  and  repentance, 
blight  you,  disgrace  you,  pull  you  down  with  him.  I know 
very  well  that  you  can  have  no  tenderness  for  me;  I ask 
for  none;  I am  even  thankful  that  it  cannot  be.’^ 

''  Without  it,  can  I not  save  you,  Mr.  Carton?  Can  I 
not  recall  you — forgive  me  again! — to  a better  course? 

; Can  I in  no  way  repay  your  confidence?  I know  this  is  a 
confidence,’^  she  modestly  said,  after  a little  hesitation,  and 
in  earnest  tears,  I know  you  would  say  this  to  no  one 
else.  Can  I turn  it  to  no  good  account  for  yourself,  Mr. 

He  shook  his  head. 

^^To  none.  Ho,  Miss  Manette,  to  none.  If  you  will  hear 
jine  through  a very  little  more,  all  you  can  ever  do  for  me 
is  done.  I wish  you  to  know  that  you  have  been  the  last 
dream  of  my  soul.  In  my  degradation  I have  not  been  so 
degraded  but  that  the  sight  of  you  with  your  father,  and 
of  this  home  made  such  a home  by  you,  has  stirred  old 
shadows  that  I thought  had  died  out  of  me.  Since  I knew 
you,  I have  been  troubled  by  a remorse  that  I thought 
would  never  reproach  me  again,  and  have  heard  whispers 
from  old  voices  impelling  me  upward,  that  I thought  were 
silent  for  ever.  I have  had  unformed  ideas  of  striving 
afresh,  beginning  anew,  shaking  off  sloth  and  sensuality, 
and  fighting  out  the  abandoned  fight.  A dream,  all  a 
dream,  that  ends  in  nothing,  and  leaves  the  sleeper  where 
he  lay  down,  but  I wish  you  to  know  that  you  inspired  it.” 

Will  nothing  of  it  remain?  0 Mr.  Carton,  think  again ! 
Try  again  I ” 

Ho,  Miss  Manette;  all  through  it,  I have  known  my- 
’^elf  to  be  quite  undeserving.  And  yet  I have  had  the 
iveakness,  and  have  still  the  weakness,  to  wish  you  to  know 
vvith  what  a sudden  mastery  you  kindled  me,  heap  of  ashes 
mat  I am,  into  fire — a fire,  however,  inseparable  in  its  na- 
mre  from  myself,  quickening  nothing,  lighting  nothing, 
loing  no  service,  idly  burning  away.” 


142 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


“ Since  it  is  my  misfortune,  Mr.  Carton,  to  have  ms 
you  more  unhappy  than  you  were  before  you  knew  me — 
“Don’t  say  that.  Miss  Manette,  for  you  would  have 
claimed  me,  if  anything  could.  You  will  not  be  the  ca 
of  my  becoming  worse.”  _ ! i 

“ Since  the  state  of  your  mind  that  you  describe,  is,  .a  | 
all  events,  attributable  to  some  influence  of  mine— this  is  I 
what  I mean,  if  I can  make  it  plain — can  I use  no  influence 
to  serve  you?  Have  I no  power  for  good,  with  you,  at  j 
all?  ” 

“ The  utmost  good  that  I am  capable  of  now,  Miss  Ma- 
nette, I have  come  here  to  realise.  Let  me  carry  through 
the  rest  of  my  misdirected  life,  the  remembrance  that  I 
opened  my  heart  to  you,  last  of  all  the  world;  and  that  I 
there  was  something  left  in  me  at  this  time  which  you 
could  deplore  and  pity.”  _ f 

“ Which  I entreated  you  to  believe,  again  and  again,  ; 
most  fervently,  with  all  my  heart,  was  capable  of  better  i 
things,  Mr.  Carton!”  _ I 

“ Entreat  me  to  believe  it  no  more.  Miss  Manette.  I 
have  proved  myself,  and  I know  better.  I distress  you;  I j 
draw  fast  to  an  end.  Will  you  let  me  believe,  when  I re-  ^ 
oall  this  day,  that  the  last  confidence  of  my  life  was  re- 1 
posed  in  your  pure  and  innocent  breast,  and  that  it  lies  j 
there  alone,  and  will  be  shared  by  no  one?  ” 

“ If  that  will  be  a consolation  to  you,  yes.”  ; 

“ Not  even  by  the  dearest  one  ever  to  be  known  to  you?  ” | 
“Mr.  Carton,”  she  answered,  after  an  agitated  pause,  i 
“the  secret  is  yours,  not  mine;  and  I promise  to  respectj 
it.” 

“Thank  you.  And  again,  God  bless  you.” 

He  put  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  moved  towards  the  door. 
“ Be  under  no  apprehension.  Miss  Manette,  of  my  ever 
resuming  this  conversation  by  so  much  as  a passing  word. 
I will  never  refer  to  it  again.  If  I were  dead,  that  could 
not  be  surer  than  it  is  henceforth.  In  the  hour  of  my 
death,  I shall  hold  sacred  the  one  good  remembrance —and 
shall  thank  and  bless  you  for  it— that  my  last  avowal  of 
myself  was  made  to  you,  and  that  my  name,  and  faults, 
and  miseries  were  gently  carried  in  your  heart.  May  it 
otherwise  be  light  and  happy ! ” 

He  was  so  unlike  what  lie  had  ever  shown  himself  to  be,| 
and  it  was  so  sad  to  think  how  much  he  had  thrown  awaj,j 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES.  143 

^ and  how  much  he  every  day  kept  down  and  perverted,  that 
I Lucie  Manette  wept  mournfully  for  him  as  he  stood  look- 
I ing  back  at  her. 

“ Be  comforted ! ” he  said,  “I  am  not  worth  such  feel- 
j mg.  Miss  Manette.  An  hour  or  two  hence,  and  the  low 
■ companions  and  low  habits  that  I scorn  but  yield  to,  will 
render  me  less  worth  such  tears  as  those,  than  any  wretch 
who  creeps  along  the  streets.  Be  comforted ! But,  within 
myself,  I shall  always  be,  towards  you,  what  I am  now, 
though  outwardly  I shaU  be  what  you  have  heretofore 
seen  me.  The  last  supplication  but  one  I make  to  you,  is 
that  you  will  believe  this  of  me.” 

“I  will,  Mr.  Carton.” 

I “My  last  supplication  of  all,  is  this;  and  with  it,  I will 
relieve  you  of  a visitor  with  whom  I well  know  you  have 
nothing  in  unison,  and  between  whom  and  you  there  is  an 
. impassable  space.  It  is  useless  to  say  it,  I know,  but  it 
I rises  out  of  my  soul.  For  you,  and  for  any  dear  to  you,  I 
would  do  anything.  If  my  career  were  of  that  better  kind 
jithat  there  was  any  opportunity  or  capacity  of  sacrifice  in  it, 

] 1 would  embrace  any  sacrifice  for  you  and  for  those  dear 
to  you.  Try  to  hold  me  in  your  mind,  at  some  quiet  times, 
as  ardent  and  sincere  in  this  one  thing.  The  time  will 
come,  the  time  will  not  be  long  in  coming,  when  new  ties 
will  be  formed  about  you— ties  that  will  bind  you  yet  more 
tenderly  and  strongly  to  the  home  you  so  adorn— the  dear- 
est ties  that  will  ever  grace  and  gladden  you.  0 Miss 
Manette,  when  the  little  picture  of  a happy  father’s  face 
looks  up  in  yours,  when  you  see  your  own  bright  beauty 
springing  up  anew  at  your  feet,  think  now  and  then  that 
tfiere  is  a man  who  would  give  his  life,  to  keep  a life  you 
love  beside  you ! ” •' 

He  said,  “Farewell!  ” said  a last  “God  bless  you!  ” and 
leit  her. 


144 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  HONEST  TRADESMAN. 

To  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Jeremiah  Cruncher,  sitting  on  his 
stool  in  Fleet  Street  with  his  grisly  urchin  beside  him,  a 
vast  number  and  variety  of  objects  in  movement  were  every 
day  presented.  Who  could  sit  upon  anything  in  Fleet 
Street  during  the  busy  hours  of  the  day,  and  not  be  dazed 
and  deafened  by  two  immense  processions,  one  ever 
tending  westward  with  the  sun,  the  other  ever  tending 
eastward  from  the  sun,  both  ever  tending  to  the  plains 
beyond  the  range  of  red  and  purple  where  the  sun  goes 
down! 

With  his  straw  in  his  mouth,  Mr.  Cruncher  sat  watching 
the  two  streams,  like  the  heathen  rustic  who  has  for  sev- 
eral centuries  been  on  duty  watching  one  stream— saving 
that  Jerry  had  no  expectation  of  their  ever  running  dry. 
Nor  would  it  have  been  an  expectation  of  a hopeful  kind, 
since  a small  part  of  his  income  was  derived  from  the  pilot- 
age of  timid  women  (mostly  of  a full  habit  and  past  the 
middle  term  of  life)  from  Tellson’s  side  of  the  tides  to  the 
opposite  shore.  Brief  as  such  companionship  was  in  every 
separate  instance,  Mr.  Cruncher  never  failed  to  become  so 
interested  in  the  lady  as  to  express  a strong  desire  to  have 
the  honour  of  drinking  her  very  good  health.  And  it  was 
from  the  gifts  bestowed  upon  him  towards  the  execution  of 
this  benevolent  purpose,  that  he  recruited  his  finances,  as 
just  now  observed. 

Time  was,  when  a poet  sat  upon  a stool  in  a public  place, 
and  mused  in  the  sight  of  men.  Mr.  Cruncher,  sitting  on 
a stool  in  a public  place,  but  not  being  a poet,  mused  as 
little  as  possible,  and  looked  about  him. 

It  fell  out  that  he  was  thus  engaged  in  a -season  when 
crowds  were  few,  and  belated  women  few,  and  when  his 
affairs  in  general  were  so  unprosperous  as  to  awaken  a 
strong  suspicion  in  his  breast  that  Mrs.  Cruncher  must 
have  been  “ flopping  in  some  pointed  manner,  when  an  un- 
usual concourse  pouring  down  Fleet  Street  westward,  at- 
tracted his  attention.  Looking  that  way,  Mr.  Cruncher 


MESSRS.  CRUNCHER  AND  SON. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


145 


made  out  that  some  kind  of  funeral  was  coming  along,  and 
that  there  was  popular  objection  to  this  funeral,  which  en- 
gendered uproar. 

Young  Jerry,’^  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  turning  to  his  off- 
spring, ‘‘it^s  a buryinL” 

‘‘Hooroar,  father!”  cried  Young  Jerry. 

The  young  gentleman  uttered  this  exultant  sound  with 
mysterious  significance.  The  elder  gentleman  took  the  cry 
so  ill,  that  he  watched  his  opportunity,  and  smote  the 
young  gentleman  on  the  ear. 

What  d’ye  mean?  What  are  you  hooroaring  at?  What 
do  you  want  to  conwey  to  your  own  father,  you  young  Rip? 
This  boy  is  a getting  too  many  for  me  ! ” said  Mr.  Cruncher, 
surveying  him.  ‘‘Him  and  his  hooroars!  Don’t  let  me 
hear  no  more  of  you,  or  you  shall  feel  some  more  of  me. 
D’ye  hear?  ” 

“ I warn’t  doing  no  harm,”  Young  Jerry  protested,  rub- 
bing his  cheek. 

“Drop  it,  then,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher;  “I  won’t  have  none 
Df  your  no  harms.  Get  a top  of  that  there  seat,  and  look 
I it  the  crowd.” 

His  son  obeyed,  and  the  crowd  approached;  they  were 
3awling  and  hissing  round  a dingy  hearse  and  dingy  mourn- 
ng  coach,  in  which  mourning  coach  there  was  only  one 
nourner,  dressed  in  the  dingy  trappings  that  were  con- 
;idered  essential  to  the  dignity  of  the  position.  The  posi- 
;ion  appeared  by  no  means  to  please  him,  however,  with  an 
ncreasing  rabble  surrounding  the  coach,  deriding  him, 
naking  grimaces  at  him,  and  incessantly  groaning  and  call- 
ngout:  “Yah!  Spies!  Tst!  Yaha!  Spies!”  with  many 
; ompliments,  too  numerous  and  forcible  to  repeat. 

I Funerals  had  at  all  times  a remarkable  attraction  for 
4r.  Cruncher;  he  always  pricked  up  his  senses,  and  be- 
I ame  excited,  when  a funeral  passed  Tellson’s.  Katurally, 
[herefore,  a funeral  with  this  uncommon  attendance  ex- 
I ited  him  greatly,  and  he  asked  of  the  first  man  who  ran 
I gainst  him : 

I “ What  is  it,  brother?  What’s  it  about?  ” 

I “/  don’t  know,”  said  the  man.  “ Spies!  Yaha!  Tst! 

1 pies ! ” 

I He  asked  another  man.  “ Who  is  it?  ” 

jj  “/  don’t  know,”  returned  the  man,  clapping  his  hands 

P ) his  mouth  nevertheless,  and  vociferating  in  a surprising 

r 10 


146 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


heat  and  with  the  greatest  ardour,  Spies!  Yaha!  Tst, 
tst ! Spides  I 

At  length,  a person  better  informed  on  the  merits  of  the 
case,  tumbled  against  him,  and  from  this  person  he  learned 
that  the  funeral  was  the  funeral  of  one  Eoger  Cly. 

Was  He  a spy?  asked  Mr.  Cruncher. 

^‘Old  Bailey  spy,’’  returned  his  informant.  ‘‘Yaha! 
Tst!  Yah!  Old  Bailey  Spi-i-ies!  ” 

“ Why,  to  be  sure ! ” exclaimed  Jerry,  recalling  the  Trial 
at  which  he  had  assisted.  “I’ve  seen  him.  Dead,  is  he?  ” 

“Dead  as  mutton,”  returned  the  other,  “and  can’t  be 
too  dead.  Have  ’em  out,  there ! Spies ! Pull  ’em  out, 
there ! Spies ! ” 

The  idea  was  so  acceptable  in  the  prevalent  absence  of 
any  idea,  that  the  crowd  caught  it  up  with  eagerness,  and 
loudly  repeating  the  suggestion  to  have  ’em  out,  and  to 
pull  ’em  out,  mobbed  the  two  vehicles  so  closely  that  they 
came  to  a stop.  On  the  crowd’s  opening  the  coach  doors, 
the  one  mourner  scuffled  out  of  himself  and  was  in  their 
hands  for  a moment;  but  he  was  so  alert,  and  made  such 
good  use  of  his  time,  that  in  another  moment  he  was  scour- 
ing away  up  a bye-street,  after  shedding  his  cloak,  hat, 
long  hatband,  white  pocket-handkerchief,  and  other  sym- 
bolical tears. 

These,  the  people  tore  to  pieces  and  scattered  far  and 
wide  with  great  enjoyment,  while  the  tradesmen  hurriedly 
shut  up  their  shops;  for  a crowd  in  those  times  stopped 
at  nothing,  and  was  a monster  much  dreaded.  They  had 
already  got  the  length  of  opening  the  hearse  to  take  the 
coffln  out,  when  some  brighter  genius  proposed  instead,  its 
being  escorted  to  its  destination  amidst  general  rejoicing. 
Practical  suggestions  being  much  needed,  this  suggestion, 
too,  was  received  with  acclamation,  and  the  coach  was  im- 
mediately filled  with  eight  inside  and  a dozen  out,  while  as 
many  people  got  on  the  roof  of  the  hearse  as  could  by  any 
exercise  of  ingenuity  stick  upon  it.  Among  the  first  of 
these  volunteers  was  Jerry  Cruncher  himself,  who  modestly 
concealed  his  spiky  head  from  the  observation  of  Tellson’i^, 
in  the  further  corner  of  the  mourning  coach. 

The  officiating  undertakers  made  some  protest  against 
these  changes  in  the  ceremonies;  but,  the  river  being 
alarmingly  near,  and  several  voices  remarking  on  the  effi- 
cacy of  cold  immersion  in  bringing  refractory  members  of 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


147 


the  profession  to  reason,  the  protest  was  faint  and  brief. 
The  remodelled  procession  started,  with  a chimney-sweep 
driving  the  hearse — advised  by  the  regular  driver,  who  was 
perched  beside  him,  under  close  inspection,  for  the  purpose 
—and  with  a pieman,  also  attended  by  his  cabinet  minis- 
ter, driving  the  mourning  coach.  A bear-leader,  a popular 
street  character  of  the  time,  was  impressed  as  an  additional 
ornament,  before  the  cavalcade  had  gone  far  down  the 
Strand;  and  his  bear,  who  was  black  and  very  mangy, 
gave  quite  an  Undertaking  air  to  that  part  of  the  proces- 
sion in  which  he  walked. 

Thus,  with  beer-drinking,  pipe-smoking,  song-roaring, 
and  infinite  caricaturing  of  woe,  the  disorderly  procession 
went  its  way,  recruiting  at  every  step,  and  all  the  shops 
shutting  up  before  it.  Its  destination  was  the  old  church 
of  Saint  Pancras,  far  off  in  the  fields.  It  got  there  in 
course  of  time;  insisted  on  pouring  into  the  burial-ground; 
finally,  accomplished  the  interment  of  the  deceased  Eoger 
Cly  in  its  own  way,  and  highly  to  its  own  satisfaction. 

The  dead  man  disposed  of,  and  the  crowd  being  under 
the  necessity  of  providing  some  other  entertainment  for  it- 
self, another  brighter  genius  (or  perhaps  the  same)  con- 
ceived the  humour  of  impeaching  casual  passers-by,  as  Old 
Bailey  spies,  and  wreaking  vengeance  on«them.  Chase  was 
given  to  some  scores  of  inoffensive  persons  who  had  never 
been  near  the  Old  Bailey  in  their  lives,  in  the  realisation 
of  this  fancy,  and  they  were  roughly  hustled  and  mal- 
treated. The  transition  to  the  sport  of  window-breaking, 
and  thence  to  the  plundering  of  public-houses,  was  easy 
and  natural.  At  last,  after  several  hours,  when  sundry 
summer-houses  had  been  pulled  down,  and  some  area-rail- 
ings had  been  torn  up,  to  arm  the  more  belligerent  spirits, 
a rumour  got  about  that  the  Guards  were  coming.  Before 
this  rumour,  the  crowd  gradually  melted  ^way^  and  per- 
haps the  Guards  came,  and  perhaps  they  never  caine,  aiid 
this  was  the  usual  progress  of  a mob. 

Mr.  Cruncher  did  not  assist  at  the  closing  sports,  but 
bad  remained  behind  in  the  churchyard,  to  confer  and  con- 
iole  with  the  undertakers.  The  place  had  a soothing  in-* 
luence  on  him.  He  procured  a pipe  from  a neighbouring 
public-house,  and  smoked  it,  looking  in  at  the  railings  and 
maturely  considering  the  spot. 

‘‘Jerry,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  apostrophising  himself  in 


148 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


his  usual  way,  you  see  that  there  Cly  that  day,  and  you 
see  with  your  own  eyes  that  he  was  a young  ’un  and  a 
straight  made  ’un.’^ 

Having  smoked  his  pipe  out,  and  ruminated  a little 
longer,  he  turned  himself  about,  that  he  might  appear,  be- 
fore the  hour  of  closing,  on  his  station  at  Tellson’s. 
Whether  his  meditations  on  mortality  had  touched  his 
liver,  or  whether  his  general  health  had  been  previously  at 
all  amiss,  or  whether  he  desired  to  show  a little  attention 
to  an  eminent  man,  is  not  so  much  to  the  purpose,  as  that 
he  made  a short  call  upon  his  medical  adviser — a distin- 
guished surgeon — on  his  way  back. 

Young  Jerry  relieved  his  father  with  dutiful  interest, 
and  reported  No  job  in  his  absence.  The  bank  closed,  the 
ancient  clerks  came  out,  the  usual  watch  was  set,  and  Mr. 
Cruncher  and  his  son  went  home  to  tea. 

‘‘Now,  I tell  you  where  it  is!  ’’  said  Mr.  Cruncher  to  his 
wife,  on  entering.  “If,  as  a honest  tradesman,  my  wen- 
turs  goes  wrong  to-night,  I shall  make  sure  that  youWe 
been  praying  again  me,  and  I shall  work  you  for  it  just 
the  same  as  if  I seen  you  do  it.’^ 

The  dejected  Mrs.  Cruncher  shook  her  head. 

“ Why,  you’re  at  it  afore  my  face  1 ” said  Mr.  Cruncher, 
with  signs  of  angry  apprehension. 

“ I am  saying  nothing.” 

“Well,  then;  don’t  meditate  nothing.  You  might  as 
well  flop  as  meditate.  You  may  as  well  go  again  me  one 
way  as  another.  Drop  it  altogether.”  ; 

“Yes,  Jerry.” 

“Yes,  Jerry,”  repeated  Mr.  Cruncher  sitting  down  to 
tea.  “Ah!  It  ^5  yes,  Jerry.  That’s  about  it.  You  may 
say  yes,  Jerry.” 

Mr.  Cruncher  had  no  particular  meaning  in  these  sulky 
corroborations  but  made  use  of  them,  as  people  not  unfre- 
quently  do,  to  express  general  ironical  dissatisfaction. 

“ You  and  your  yes,  Jerry,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  taking  a 
bite  out  of  his  bread-and-butter,  and  seeming  to  help  it 
down  with  a large  invisible  oyster  out  of  his  saucer.  “ Ah ! 
I think  so.  I believe  you.” 

“You  are  going  out  to-night?”  asked  his  decent  wife, 
when  he  took  another  bite. 

“Yes,  lam.” 

“May  I go  with  you,  father?  ” asked  his  son,  briskly. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


149 


you  mayn’t.  I’m  a going — as  your  mother  knows 
—a  fishing.  That’s  where  I’m  a going  to.  Going  a fish- 
ng.” 

Your  fishing-rod  gets  rayther  rusty;  don’t  it,  father?  ” 

Never  you  mind.” 

Shall  you  bring  any  fish  home,  father?  ” 

^^If  I don’t,  you’ll  have  short  commons,  to-morrow,” 
eturned  that  gentleman,  shaking  his  head;  ^‘that’s  ques- 
ions  enough  for  you;  I ain’t  a going  out,  till  you’ve  been 
ong  abed.” 

He  devoted  himself  during  the  remainder  of  the  evening 
0 keeping  a most  vigilant  watch  on  Mrs.  Cruncher,  and 
ullenly  holding  her  in  conversation  that  she  might  be  pre- 
ented  from  meditating  any  petitions  to  his  disadvantage. 
With  this  view,  he  urged  his  son  to  hold  her  in  conversa- 
ion  also,  and  led  the  unfortunate  woman  a hard  life  by 
welling  on  any  causes  of  complaint  he  could  bring  against 
•er,  rather  than  he  would  leave  her  for  a moment  to  her 
wn  reflections.  The  devoutest  person  could  have  rendered 
0 greater  homage  to  the  efficacy  of  an  honest  prayer  than 
.e  did  in  this  distrust  of  his  wife.  It  was  as  if  a professed 
inbeliever  in  ghosts  should  be  frightened  by  a ghost  story. 

And  mind  you!”  said  Mr.  Cruncher.  No  games  to- 
lorrow ! If  I,  as  a honest  tradesman,  succeed  in  provid- 
ig  a jinte  of  meat  or  two,  none  of  your  not  touching  of  it, 
nd  sticking  to  bread.  If  I,  as  a honest  tradesman,  am 
ble  to  provide  a little  beer,  none  of  your  declaring  on 
^ater.  When  you  go  to  Rome,  do  as  Rome  does.  Rome 
dll  be  a ugly  customer  to  you,  if  you  don’t,  i’m  your 
tome,  you  know.” 

Then  he  began  grumbling  again  : 

With  your  flying  into  the  face  of  your  own  wittles  and 
rink!  I don’t  know  how  scarce  you  mayn’t  make  the 
dttles  and  drink  here,  by  your  flopping  tricks  and  your 
nfeeling  conduct.  Look  at  your  boy:  he  is  your’n,  ain’t 
e?  He’s  as  thin  as  a lath.  Do  you  call  yourself  a 
mther,  and  not  know  that  a mother’s  first  duty  is  to  blow 
^er  boy  out?  ” 

This  touched  young  Jerry  on  a tender  place;  who  ad- 
,ired  his  mother  to  perform  her  first  duty,  and,  whatever 
ise  she  did  or  neglected,  above  all  things  to  lay  especial 
;ress  on  the  discharge  of  that  maternal  function  so  affec- 
ngly  and  delicately  indicated  by  his  other  parent. 


150 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Thus  the  evening  wore  away  with  the  Cruncher  family, 
until  Young  Jerry  was  ordered  to  bed,  and  his  mother,  laid 
under  similar  injunctions,  obeyed  them.  Mr.  Cruncher  be- 
guiled the  earlier  watches  of  the  night  with  solitary  pipes, 
and  did  not  start  upon  his  excursion  until  nearly  one 
o’clock.  Towards  that  small  and  ghostly  hour,  he  rose  up 
form  his  chair,  took  a key  out  of  his  pocket,  opened  a 
locked  cupboard,  and  brought  forth  a sack,  a crowbar  of 
convenient  size,  a rope  and  chain,  and  other  fishing  tackle 
of  that  nature.  Disposing  these  articles  about  him  in 
skilful  manner,  he  bestowed  a parting  defiance  on  Mrs. 
Cruncher,  extinguished  the  light,  and  went  out. 

Young  Jerry,  who  had  only  made  a feint  of  undressing 
when  he  went  to  bed,  was  not  long  after  his  father.  Un- 
der cover  of  the  darkness  he  followed  out  of  the  room,  fol- 
lowed down  the  stairs,  followed  down  the  court,  followed 
out  into  the  streets.  He  was  in  no  uneasiness  concerning 
his  getting  into  the  house  again,  for  it  was  full  of  lodgers, 
and  the  door  stood  ajar  all  night. 

Impelled  by  a laudable  ambition  to  study  the  art  and 
mystery  of  his  father’s  honest  calling.  Young  Jerry,  keep- 
ing as  close  to  house  fronts,  walls,  and  doorways,  as  his 
eyes  were  close  to  one  another,  held  his  honoured  parent  in 
view.  The  honoured  parent  steering  Northward,  had  not 
gone  far,  when  he  was  joined  by  another  disciple  of  Izaak 
Walton,  and  the  two  trudged  on  together. 

Within  half  an  hour  from  the  first  starting,  they  were 
beyond  the  winking  lamps,  and  the  more  than  winking 
watchmen,  and  were  out  upon  a lonely  road.  Another 
fisherman  was  picked  up  here — and  that  so  silently,  that  if 
Young  Jerry  had  been  superstitious,  he  might  have  sup- 
posed the  second  follower  of  the  gentle  craft  to  have,  all  of 
a sudden,  split  himself  into  two. 

The  three  went  on,  and  Young  Jerry  went  on,  until  the 
three  stopped  under  a bank  overhanging  the  road.  Upon 
the  top  of  the  bank  was  a low  brick  wall,  surmounted  by 
an  iron  railing.  In  the  shadow  of  bank  and  wall  the  three 
turned  out  of  the  road,  and  up  a blind  lane,  of  which  the 
wall — there,  risen  to  some  eight  or  ten  feet  high — .formed 
one  side.  Crunching  down  in  a corner,  peeping  up  the 
lane,  the  next  object  that  Young  Jerry  saw,  was  the  form 
of  his  honoured  parent,  pretty  well  defined  against  a wa-i 
tery  and  clouded  moon,  nimbly  scaling  an  iron  gate.  Hej 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


151 


was  soon  over,  and  then  the  second  fisherman  got  over,  and 
then  the  third.  They  all  dropped  softly  on  the  ground 
within  the  gate,  and  lay  there  a little — listening  perhaps. 
Then,  they  moved  away  on  their  hands  and  knees. 

It  was  now  Young  Jerry’s  turn  to  approach  the  gate: 
which  he  did,  holding  his  breath.  Crouching  down  again 
in  a corner  there,  and  looking  in,  he  made  out  the  three 
fishermen  creeping  through  some  rank  grass ! and  all  the 
gravestones  in  the  churchyard — it  was  a large  churchyard 
that  they  were  in — looking  on  like  ghosts  in  white,  while 
the  church  tower  itself  looked  on  like  the  ghost  of  a mon- 
strous giant.  They  did  not  creep  far,  before  they  stopped 
and  stood  upright.  And  then  they  began  to  fish. 

They  fished  with  a spade,  at  first.  Presently  the  hon- 
oured parent  appeared  to  be  adjusting  some  instrument  like 
a great  corkscrew.  Whatever  tools  they  worked  with,  they 
worked  hard,  until  the  awful  striking  of  the  church  clock 
so  terrified  Young  Jerry,  that  he  made  off,  with  his  hair 
as  stiff  as  his  father’s. 

But,  his  long-cherished  desire  to  know  more  about  these 
matters,  not  only  stopped  him  in  his  running  away,  but 
lured  him  back  again.  They  were  still  fishing  persever- 
when  he  peeped  in  at  the  gate  for  the  second  time; 
but,  now  they  seemed  to  have  got  a bite.  There  was  a 
screwing  and  complaining  sound  down  below,  and  their 
bent  figures  were  strained,  as  if  by  a weight.  By  slow  de- 
grees the  weight  broke  away  the  earth  upon  it,  and  came 
bo  the  surface.  Young  Jerry  very  well  knew  what  it  would 
be;  but,  when  he  saw  it,  and  saw  his  honoured  parent 
ibout  to  wrench  it  open,  he  was  so  frightened,  being  new 
:o  the  sight,  that  he  made  off  again,  and  never  stopped  un- 
jil  he  had  run  a mile  or  more. 

He  would  not  have  stopped  then,  for  anything  less  nec- 
essary than  breath,  it  being  a spectral  sort  of  race  that  he 
'an,  and  one  highly  desirable  to  get  to  the  end  of.  He  had 
i strong  idea  that  the  coffin  he  had  seen  was  running  after 
lim;  and,  pictured  as  hopping  on  behind  him,  bolt  up- 
•ight,  upon  its  narrow  end,  always  on  the  point  of  overtak- 
ng  him  and  hopping  on  at  his  side — perhaps  taking  his 
irm— -it  was  a pursuer  to  shun.  It  was  an  inconsistent  and 
ibiquitous  fiend  too,  for,  while  it  was  making  the  whole 
light  behind  him  dreadful,  he  darted  out  into  the  roadway 
•o  avoid  dark  alleys,  fearful  of  its  coming  hopping  out  of 


152 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


them  like  a dropsical  boy’s-Kite  without  tail  and  wings. 
It  hid  in  doorways  too,  rubbing  its  horrible  shoulders 
against  doors,  and  drawing  them  up  to  its  ears,  as  if  it 
were  laughing.  It  got  into  shadows  on  the  road,  and  lay 
cunningly  on  its  back  to  trip  him  up.  All  this  time  it  was 
incessantly  hopping  on  behind  and  gaining  on  him,  so  that 
when  the  boy  got  to  his  own  door  he  had  reason  for  being 
half  dead.  And  even  then  it  would  not  leave  him,  but 
followed  him  up-stairs  with  a bump  on  every  stair,  scram- 
bled into  bed  with  him,  and  bumped  down,  dead  and 
heavy,  on  his  breast  when  he  fell  asleep. 

From  his  oppressed  slumber.  Young  Jerry  in  his  closet 
was  awakened  after  daybreak  and  before  sunrise,  by  the 
presence  of  his  father  in  the  family  room.  Something  had 
gone  wrong  with  him;  at  least,  so  Young  Jerry  inferred, 
from  the  circumstance  of  his  holding  Mrs.  Cruncher  by 
the  ears,  and  knocking  the  back  of  her  head  against  the 
head-board  of  the  bed. 

^^I  told  you  I would,’’  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  ^^and  I did.” 
Jerry,  Jerry,  Jerry!”  his  wife  implored. 

You  oppose  yourself  to  the  profit  of  the  business,”  said 
Jerry,  ^^and  me  and  my  partners  suffer.  You  was  to  hon- 
our and  obey;  why  the  devil  don’t  you?  ” 

‘^I  try  to  be  a good  wife,  Jerry,”  the  poor  woman  pro- 
tested, with  tears. 

‘‘Is  it  being  a good  wife  to  oppose  your  husband’s  busi- 
ness? Is  it  honouring  your  husband  to  dishonour  his  busi- 
ness? Is  it  obeying  your  husband  to  disobey  him  on  the 
wital  subject  of  his  business?  ” 

“ You  hadn’t  taken  to  the  dreadful  business  then,  Jerry.” 

“It’s  enough  for  you,”  retorted  Mr.  Cruncher,  “to  be 
the  wife  of  a honest  tradesman,  and  not  to  occupy  your 
female  mind  with  calculations  when  he  took  to  his  trade  or 
when  he  didn’t.  A honouring  and  obeying  wife  would  let 
his  trade  alone  altogether.  Call  yourself  a religious  wom- 
an? If  you’re  a religious  woman,  give  me  a irreligious 
one!  You  have  no  more  nat’ral  sense  of  duty  than  the  bed 
of  this  here  Thames  river  has  of  a pile,  and  similarly  it 
must  be  knocked  into  you.” 

The  altercation  was  conducted  in  a low  tone  of  voice, 
and  terminated  in  the  honest  tradesman’s  kicking  off’  his 
clay-soiled  boots,  and  lying  down  at  his  length  on  the  floor. 
After  taking  a timid  peep  at  him  lying  on  his  back,  with 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


153 


his  rusty  hands  under  his  head  for  a pillow,  his  son  lay 
down  too,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

There  was  no  fish  for  breakfast,  and  not  much  of  any- 
thing else.  Mr.  Cruncher  was  out  of  spirits,  and  out  of 
temper,  and  kept  an  iron  pot-lid  by  him  as  a projectile  for 
;he  correction  of  Mrs.  Cruncher,  in  case  he  should  observe 

Grace.  He  was  brushed  and 
vashed  at  the  usual  hour,  and  set  off  with  his  son  to  pur- 
;ue  his  ostensible  calling.  ^ 

Young  Jerry,  walking  with  the  stool  under  his  arm  at 
ns  father’s  side  along  sunny  and  crowded  Fleet  Street,  was 
. very  diffm-ent  Young  Jerry  from  him  of  the  previous 
light,  running  home  through  darkness  and  solitude  from 
ns  grim  pursuer.  His  cunning  was  fresh  with  the  day 
nd  his  qualms  were  gone  with  the  night— in  which  par- 
iculars  it  is  not  improbable  that  he  had  compeers  in  Fleet 
'treet  and  the  City  of  London,  that  fine  morning. 

“Father,”  said  Young  Jerry,  as  they  walked  along:  tak- 
ig  care  to  keep  at  arm’s  length  and  to  have  the  stool  well 
etween  them:  “what’s  a Resurrection-Man?  ” 

Mr.  Cruncher  came  to  a stop  on  the  pavement  before  he 
aswered,  “ How  should  I know?  ” 

“I  thought  you  knowed  everything,  father,”  said  the 
rtless  boy. 

Mr.  Cruncher,  going  on  again, 

Id  lifting  off  his  hat  to  give  his  spikes  free  play,  “ he’s  a 
adesmaii.” 

goods,  father?  ” asked  the  brisk  Young 

His  goods,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  after  turning  it  over 
his  mind,  ‘ is  a branch  of  Scientific  goods  ” 

« Persons’  bodies,  ain’t  it,  father?  ” asked  the  lively  boy. 

i believe  it  is  something  of  that  sort,”  said  Mr 
'uncher. 

“ Oh  father,  I should  so  like  to  be  a Resurrection-Man 
len  I’m  quite  growed  up ! ” 

Mr.  Cruncher  was  soothed,  but  shook  his  head  in  a dubi- 
s and  moral  way.  “ It  depends  upon  how  you  dewelop 
ur  talents.  Be  careful  to  dewelop  your  talents,  and 
ver.  to  say  no  more  than  you  can  help  to  nobody,  and 
f present  time  what  you  may  not 

Be  to  be  fit  for.  As  Young  Jerry,  thus  encouraged, 
nt  on  a few  yards  in  advance,  to  plant  the  stool  in  the 


154 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 


shadow  of  the  Bar,  Mr.  Cruncher  added  to  himself : Jerry, 

you  honest  tradesman,  there’s  hopes  wot  that  boy  will  yet 
be  a blessing  to  you,  and  a recompense  to  you  for  his 
mother ! ” 


CHAPTER  XV. 

KNITTING. 

There  had  been  earlier  drinking  than  usual  in  the  wine 
shop  of  Monsieur  Defarge.  As  early  as  six  o’clock  in  th( 
morning,  sallow  faces  peeping  through  its  barred  windowj 
had  descried  other  faces  within,  bending  over  measures  o: 
wine.  Monsieur  Defarge  sold  a very  thin  wine  at  the  bes 
of  times,  but  it  would  seem  to  have  been  an  unusually  thii 
wine  that  he  sold  at  this  time.  A sour  wine,  moreover,  o; 
a souring,  for  its  influence  on  the  mood  of  those  who  dranl 
it  was  to  make  them  gloomy.  No  vivacious  Bacchanaliai 
flame  leaped  out  of  the  pressed  grape  of  Monsieur  Defarge 
but,  a smouldering  fire  that  burnt  in  the  dark,  lay  hiddei 
in  the  dregs  of  it. 

This  had  been  the  third  morning  in  succession,  on  whicl 
there  had  been  early  drinking  at  the  wine-shop  of  Monsieu 
Defarge.  It  had  begun  on  Monday,  and  here  was  Wedne^ 
day  come.  There  had  been  more  of  early  brooding  tha: 
drinking;  for,  many  men  had  listened  and  whispered  an^ 
slunk  about  there  from  the  time  of  the  opening  of  the  dooii 
who  could  not  have  laid  a piece  of  money  on  the  counter  tj 
save  their  souls.  These  were  to  the  full  as  interested  i 
the  place,  however,  as  if  they  could  have  commanded  whol 
barrels  of  wine;,  and  they  glided  from  seat  to  seat,  an 
from  corner  to  corner,  swallowing  talk  in  lieu  of  drinlj 
with  greedy  looks. 

Notwithstanding  an  unusual  flow  of  company,  the  maj 
ter  of  the  wine-shop  was  not  visible.  He  was  not  missed 
for,  nobody  who  crossed  the  threshold  looked  for  him,  nc 
body  asked  for  him,  nobody  wondered  to  see  only  Madarc 
Defarge  in  her  seat,  presiding  over  the  distribution  of  win^ 
with  a bowl  of  battered  small  coins  before  her,  as  muc 
defaced  and  beaten  out  of  their  original  impress  as  tl 
small  coinage  of  humanity  from  whose  ragged  pockets  the 
had  come. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


156 


A suspended  interest  and  a prevalent  absence  of  mind, 
(vpe  perhaps  observed  by  the  spies  who  looked  in  at  the 
wine-shop,  as  they  looked  in  at  every  place,  high  and  low, 
from  the  king’s  palace  to  the  criminal’s  gaol.  Games  at 
iards  languished,  players  at  dominoes  musingly  built  tow- 
;rs  with  them,  drinkers  drew  figures  on  the  tables  with 
ipilt  drops  of  wine,  Madame  Defarge  herself  picked  out  the 
)attern  on  her  sleeve  with  her  toothpick,  and  saw  and 
leard  something  inaudible  and  invisible  a long  way  off. 

Thus,  Saint  Antoine  in  this  vinous  feature  of  his,  until 
nid-day.  It  was  high  noontide,  when  two  dusty  men 
>assed  through  his  streets  and  under  his  swinging  lamps : 
f whom,  one  was  Monsieur  Defarge:  the  other  a mender 
f roads  in  a blue  cap.  All  adust  and  athirst,  the  two  en- 
ered  the  wine-shop.  Their  arrival  had  lighted  a kind  of 
lie  in  the  breast  of  Saint  Antoine,  fast  spreading  as  they 
ame  along,  which  stirred  and  flickered  in  flames  of  faces  at 
lost  doors  and  windows.  Yet,  no  one  had  followed  them, 
nd  no  man  spoke  when  they  entered  the  wine-shop, 
bough  the  eyes  of  every  man  there  were  turned  upon  them. 

“ Good  day,  gentlemen ! ” said  Monsieur  Defarge. 

It  may  have  been  a signal  for  loosening  the  general 
mgue.  It  elicited  an  answering  chorus  of  “ Good  day ! ” 
“It  is  bad  weather,  gentlemen,”  said  Defarge,  shaking 
IS  head. 

Upon  which,  every  man  looked  at  his  neighbour,  and  then 
1 cast  down  their  eyes  and  sat  silent.  Except  one  man, 
ho  got  up  and  went  out. 

My  wife,”  said  Defarge  aloud,  addressing  Madame 
efarge : “ I have  travelled  certain  leagues  with  this  good 
ender  of  roads,  called  Jacques.  I met  him — by  accident 
-a  day  and  half’s  journey  out  of  Paris.  He  is  a good 
nld,  this  mender  of  roads,  called  Jacques.  Give  him  to 
‘ink,  my  wife ! ” 

A second  man  got  up  and  went  out.  Madame  Defarge 
twine  before  the  mender  of  roads  called  Jacques,  who 
)ffed  his  blue  cap  to  the  company,  and  drank.  In  the 
east  of  his  blouse  he  carried  some  coarse  dark  bread;  he 
e of  this  between  whiles,  and  sat  munching  and  drinking 
ar  Madame  Defarge’s  counter.  A third  man  got  up  and 
mt  out.  ^ 

Defaige  lefreshed  himself  with  a draught  of  wine — but, 
took  less  than  was  given  to  the  stranger,  as  being  himself 


156 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


a man  to  whom  it  was  no  rarity — and  stood  waiting  until  the 
countryman  had  made  his  breakfast.  He  looked  at  no  one 
present,  and  no  one  now  looked  at  him;  not  even  Madame 
Hefarge,  who  had  taken  up  her  knitting,  and  was  at  work. 

''  Have  you  finished  your  repast,  friend?  ” he  asked,  in 
due  season. 

Yes,  thank  you.’’ 

^'Come,  then!  You  shall  see  the  apartment  that  I told 
you  you  could  occupy.  It  will  suit  you  to  a marvel.” 

Out  of  the  wine-shop  into  the  street,  out  of  the  street 
into  a courtyard,  out  of  the  courtyard  up  a steep  staircase, 
out  of  the  staircase  into  a garret,— formerly  the  garret 
where  a white-haired  man  sat  on  a low  bench,  stooping  for- 
ward and  very  busy,  making  shoes. 

No  white-haired  man  was  there  now;  but,  the  three  men 
were  there  who  had  gone  out  of  the  wine-shop  singly. 
And  between  them  and  the  white-haired  man  afar  off,  wae 
the  one  small  link,  that  they  had  once  looked  in  at  hiix 
through  the  chinks  in  the  wall. 

Defarge  closed  the  door  carefully,  and  spoke  in  a sub- 
dued voice : 

“Jacques  One,  Jacques  Two,  Jacques  Three!  This  it 
the  witness  encountered  by  appointment,  by  me,  Jacques 
Four.  He  will  tell  you  all.  Speak,  Jacques  Five ! ” 

The  mender  of  roads,  blue  cap  in  hand,  wiped  hi 
swarthy  forehead  with  it,  and  said,  “ Where  shall  I com 
mence,  monsieur?  ” 

“Commence,”  was  Monsieur  Defarge’s  not  unreasonable 
■ reply,  at  the  commencement.” 

“I  saw  him  then,  messieurs,”  began  the  mender  of  roads 
“ a year  ago  this  running  summer,  underneath  the  carriag 
of  the  Marquis,  hanging  by  the  chain.  Behold  the  manned 
of  it.  I leaving  my  work  on  the  road,  the  sun  going  t 
bed,  the  carriage  of  the  Marquis  slowly  ascending  the  hiL 
he  hanging  by  the  chain — like  this.” 

Again  the  mender  of  roads  went  through  the  whole  pel 
formance;  in  which  he  ought  to  have  been  perfect  by  tha 
time,  seeing  that  it  had  been  the  infallible  resource  and  ill 
dispensable  entertainment  of  his  village  during  a whole  yeaJ 
Jacques  One  struck  in,  and  asked  if  he  had  ever  see 
the  man  before? 

“Never,”  answered  the  mender  of  roads,  recovering  h 
perpendicular. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


157 


. Jacques  Three  demanded  how  he  afterwards  recognised 
im  then? 

“By  his  tall  figure,”  said  the  mender  of  roads,  softly, 
nd  with  his  finger  at  his  nose.  “ When  Monsieur  the  Har- 
ms demands  that  evening,  ‘Say,  what  is  he  like?  ’ I make 
psponse,  ‘ Tall  as  a spectre.’  ” 

You  should  have  said,  short  as  a dwarf,”  returned 
acques  Two. 

“But  what  did  I know?  The  deed  was  not  then  accom- 
lished,  neither  did  he  confide  in  me.  Observe ! Under 
lose  circumstances  even,  I do  not  offer  my  testimony, 
-onsieur  the  Marquis  indicates  me  with  his  finger,  stand- 
g near  our  little  fountain,  and  says,  ‘ To  me ! Bring  that 
.seal!  ’ My  faith,  messieurs,  I offer  nothing.” 

“He  is  right  there,  Jacques,”  murmured  Defarge,  to 
m who  had  interrupted.  “ Go  on  I ” 

Good ! ” said  the  mender  of  roads,  with  an  air  of  mys- 
tall  man  is  lost,  and  he  is  sought — how  many 
onths?  Nine,  ten,  eleven?  ” 

“No  matter,  the  number,”  said  Defarge.  “ He  is  well 
dden,  but  at  last  he  is  unluckily  found.  Go  on!  ” 

“ I am  again  at  work  upon  the  hill-side,  and  the  sun  is 
am  about  to  go  to  bed.  I am  collecting  my  tools  to  de- 
md  to  my  cottage  down  in  the  village  below,  where  it  is 
when  I raise  my  eyes,  and  see  coming  over 
3 hill  SIX  soldiers.  In  the  midst  of  them  is  a tall  man 
th  his  arms  bound— tied  to  his  sides— like  this ! ” 

With  the  aid  of  his  indispensable  cap,  he  represented  a 
in  with  his  elbows  bound  fast  at  his  hips,  with  cords  that 
re  knotted  behind  him. 

“ I stand  aside,  messieurs,  by  my  heap  of  stones,  to  see 
i soldiers  and  their  prisoner  pass  (for  it  is  a solitary  road, 
it,  where  any  spectacle  is  well  worth  looking  at),  and  at 
it,  as  they  approach,  I see  no  more  than  that  they  are  six 
diers  with  a tall  man  bound,  and  that  they  are  almost 
ck  to  my  sight— except  on  the  side  of  the  sun  going  to 
1,  where  they  have  a red  edge,  messieurs.  Also,  I see 
t their  long  shadows  are  on  the  hollow  ridge  on  the  op- 
ate  side  of  the  road,  and  are  on  the  hill  above  it,  and 
like  the  shadows  of  giants.  Also,  I see  that  they  are 
ered  with  dust,  and  that  the  dust  moves  with  them  as 
y come,  tramp,  tramp ! But  when  they  advance  quite 
r o me,  I recognise  the  tall  man,  and  he  recognises  me. 


158 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Ah,  but  he  would  be  well  content  to  precipitate  himself  j 
over  the  hill-side  once  again,  as  on  the  evening  when  hej 
and  I first  encountered,  close  to  the  same  spot ! ” I 

He  described  it  as  if  he  were  there,  and  it  was  evident! 
that  he  saw  it  vividly;  perhaps  he  had  not  seen  much  in! 
his  life. 

I do  not  show  the  soldiers  that  I recognise  the  tall 
man;  he  does  not  show  the  soldiers  that  he  recognises  me; 
we  do  it,  and  we  know  it,  with  our  eyes.  ^ Come  on ! ’ says 
the  chief  of  that  company,  pointing  to  the  village,  ‘ bring 
him  fast  to  his  tomb ! ’ and  they  bring  him  faster.  I fol- 
low. His  arms  are  swelled  because  of  being  bound  so 
tight,  his  wooden  shoes  are  large  and  clumsy,  and  he  is 
lame.  Because  he  is  lame,  and  consequently  slow,  they 
drive  him  with  their  guns — like  this ! ” 

He  imitated  the  action  of  a man’s  being  impelled  forward] 


by  the  butt-ends  of  muskets.  ; 

As  they  descend  the  hill  like  madmen  running  a race,| 
he  falls.  They  laugh  and  pick  him  up  again.  His  face  isj 
bleeding  and  covered  with  dust,  but  he  cannot  touch  it;| 
thereupon  they  laugh  again.  They  bring  him  into  the  vil-i 
lage;  all  the  village  runs  to  look;  they  take  him  past  the 
mill,  and  up  to  the  prison;  all  the  village  sees  the  prison 
gate  open  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  and  swallow  him— 
like  this ! ” ' 

He  opened  his  mouth  as  wide  as  he  could,  and  shut  ilj 
with  a sounding  snap  of  his  teeth.  Observant  of  his  un- 1 
willingness  to  mar  the  effect  by  opening  it  again,  Defargej 
said,  Go  on,  Jacques.”  ^ : 

“All  the  village,”  pursued  the  mender  of  roads,  on  tip-i 
toe  and  in  a low  voice,  “withdraws;  all  the  village  whis- 
pers by  the  fountain;  all  the  village  sleeps;  all  the  village 
dreams  of  that  unhappy  one,  within  the  locks  and  bars  o; 
the  prison  on  the  crag,  and  never  to  come  out  of  it  excepi 
to  perish.  In  the  morning,  with  my  tools  upon  my  shouldei’i 
eating  my  morsel  of  black  bread  as  I go,  I make  a circuit 
the  prison,  on  my  way  to  my  work.  There  I see  him,  higi 
up,  behind  the  bars  of  a lofty  iron  cage,  bloody  and  dustjl 
as  last  night,  looking  through.  He  has  no  hand  free,  t« 
wave  to  me;  I dare  not  call  to  him;  he  regards  me  like  :! 
dead  man.”  i 

Defarge  and  the  three  glanced  darkly  at  one  anotheri| 
The  looks  of  all  of  them  were  dark,  repressed,  and  rej| 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


169 


/’engeful,  as  they  listened  to  the  countryman’s  story;  the 
nanner  of  all  of  them,  while  it  was  secret,  was  authori- 
ative  too.  They  had  the  air  of  a rough  tribunal;  Jacques 
)ne  and  Two  sitting  on  the  old  pallet-bed,  each  with  his 
hin  resting  on  his  hand,  and  his  eyes  intent  on  the  road- 
aender;  Jacques  Three,  equally  intent,  on  one  knee  behind 
hem,  with  his  agitated  hand  always  gliding  over  the  net- 
work of  fine  nerves  about  his  mouth  and  nose;  Defarge 
tanding  between  them  and  the  narrator,  whom  he  had 
tationed  in  the  light  of  the  window,  by  turns  looking  from 
im  to  them,  and  from  them  to  him. 

^‘Go  on,  Jacques,”  said  Defarge. 

He  remains  up  there  in  his  iron  cage  some  days.  The 
illage  looks  at  him  by  stealth,  for  it  is  afraid.  But  it  al- 
7’ays  looks  up,  from  a distance,  at  the  prison  on  the  crag; 
nd  in  the  evening,  when  the  work  of  the  day  is  achieved 
nd  it  assembles  to  gossip  at  the  fountain,  all  faces  are 
irned  towards  the  prison.  Formerly,  they  were  turned 
awards  the  posting-house,  now,  they  are  turned  towards 
le  prison.  They  whisper  at  the  fountain,  that  although 
mdemned  to  death  he  will  not  be  executed;  they  say  that 
etitions  have  been  presented  in  Paris,  showing  that  he 
•as  enraged  and  made  mad  by  the  death  of  his  child;  they 
ly  that  a petition  has  been  presented  to  the  King  himself, 
i^hat  do  I know?  It  is  possible.  Perhaps  yes,  perhaps 
0. 

“Listen  then,  Jacques,”  Humber  One  of  that  name 
/Crnly  interposed.  “Know  that  a petition  was  presented 
> the  King  and  Queen.  All  here,  yourself  excepted,  saw 
le  King  take  it,  in  his  carriage  in  the  street,  sitting  beside 
le  Queen.  It  is  Defarge  whom  you  see  here,  who,  at  the 
izard  of  his  life,  darted  out  before  the  horses,  with  the 
5tition  in  his  hand.” 

And  once  again  listen,  Jacques!”  said  the  kneeling 
umber  Three : his  fingers  ever  wandering  over  and  over 
ose  fine  nerves,  with  a strikingly  greedy  air,  as  if  he 
mgered  for  something— that  was  neither  food  nor  drink; 
the  guard,  horse  and  foot,  surrounded  the  petitioner,  and 
ruck  him  blows.  You  hear?  ” 

“I  hear,  messieurs.” 

“Go  on  then,”  said  Defarge. 

“Again;  on  the  other  hand,  they  whisper  at  the  foun- 
m,  resumed  the  countryman,  “ that  he  is  brought  down 


160 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


into  our  country  to  be  executed  on  the  spot,  and  that  he 
will  very  certainly  be  executed.  They  even  whisper  that 
because  he  has  slain  Monseigneur,  and  because  Monseigneur 
was  the  father  of  his  tenants — serfs — what  you  will — he 
will  be  executed  as  a parricide.  One  old  man  says  at  the 
fountain,  that  his  right  hand,  armed  with  the  knife,  will 
be  burnt  off  before  his  face;  that,  into  wounds  which  will 
be  made  in  his  arms,  his  breast,  and  his  legs,  there  will  be 
poured  boiling  oil,  melted  lead,  hot  resin,  wax,  and  sul- 
phur; finally,  that  he  will  be  torn  limb  from  limb  by  four 
strong  horses.  That  old  man  says,  all  this  was  actually 
done  to  a prisoner  who  made  an  attempt  on  the  life  of  the 
late  King,  Louis  Fifteen.  But  how  do  I know  if  he  lies? 
I am  not  a scholar.’’ 

‘^Listen  once  again  then,  Jacques!”  said  the  man  with 
the  restless  hand  and  the  craving  air.  The  name  of  that 
prisoner  was  Damiens,  and  it  was  all  done  in  open  day,  in 
the  open  streets  of  this  city  of  Paris;  and  nothing  was 
more  noticed  in  the  vast  concourse  that  saw  it  done,  than 
the  crowd  of  ladies  of  quality  and  fashion,  who  were  full 
of  eager  attention  to  the  last — to  the  last,  Jacques,  pro- 
longed until  nightfall,  when  he  had  lost  two  legs  and  an 
arm,  and  still  breathed ! And  it  was  done — why,  how  old 
are  you?  ” 

^^Thirty-five,”  said  the  mender  of  roads,  who  looked 
sixty. 

^^It  was  done  when  you  were  more  than  ten  years  old; 
you  might  have  seen  it.” 

Enough ! ” said  Defarge,  with  grim  impatience.  Long 
live  the  Devil!  Go  on.” 

^‘Well!  Some  whisper  this,  some  whisper  that;  they 
speak  of  nothing  else;  even  the  fountain  appears  to  fall  to 
that  tune.  At  length,  on  Sunday  night  when  all  the  vil- 
lage is  asleep,  come  soldiers,  winding  down  from  the 
prison,  and  their  guns  ring  on  the  stones  of  the  little  street.i 
Workmen  dig,  workmen  hammer,  soldiers  laugh  and  sing*, 
in  the  morning,  by  the  fountain,  there  is  raised  a gallows 
forty  feet  high,  poisoning  the  water.” 

The  mender  of  roads  looked  through  rather  than  at  the 
low  ceiling,  and  pointed  as  if  he  saw  the  gallows  some- 
where in  the  sky. 

^^'All  work  is  stopped,  all  assemble  there,  nobody  leads 
the  cows  out^  the  cows  are  there  with  the  rest.  At  mid- 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES.  161 

lay,  the  roll  of  drums.  Soldiers  have  marched  into  the 
orison  in  the  night,  and  he  is  in  the  midst  of  many  sol- 
liers.  He  is  bound  as  before,  and  in  his  mouth  there  is  a 
jag— tied  so,  with  a tight  string,  making  him  look  almost 
IS  if  he  laughed.”  He  suggested  it,  by  creasing  his  face 
with  his  two  thumbs,  from  the  corners  of  his  mouth  to  his 
sars.  “ On  the  top  of  the  gallows  is  fixed  the  knife,  blade 
ipwards,  with  its  point  in  the  air.  He  is  hanged  there 
':orty  feet  high — and  is  left  hanging,  poisoning  the  water.  ” 
They  looked  at  one  another,  as  he  used  his  blue  cap  to 
vipe  his  face,  on  which  the  perspiration  had  started  afresh 
vhile  he  recalled  the  spectacle. 

“It  is  frightful,  messieurs.  How  can  the  women  and 
he  children  draw  water ! AVho  can  gossip  of  an  evening, 
|.nder  that  shadow!  Under  it,  have  I said?  When  I left 
he  village,  Monday  evening  as  the  sun  was  going  to  bed, 
nd  looked  back  from  the  hill,  the  shadow  struck  across 
.he  church,  across  the  mill,  across  the  prison — seemed  to 
jtrike  across  the  earth,  messieurs,  to  where  the  sky  rests 
pon  it ! ” ^ 

The  hungry  man  gnawed  one  of  his  fingers  as  he  looked 
jt  the  other  three,  and  his  finger  quivered  with  the 
.raving  that  was  on  him. 

“ That’s  all,  messieurs.  I left  at  sunset  (as  I had  been 
■arned  to  do),  and  I walked  on,  that  night  and  half  next 
until  I met  (as  I was  warned  I should)  this  comrade, 
yith  him,  I came  on,  now  riding  and  now  walking,  through 
le  rest  of  yesterday  and  through  last  night.  And  here 
DU  see  me ! ” 

After  a gloomy  silence,  the  first  Jacques  said,  “ Good ! 
ou  have  acted  and  recounted  faithfully.  Will  you  wait 
>r  us  a little,  outside  the  door?  ” 

“Very  willingly,”  said  the  mender  of  roads.  Whom 
lefarge  escorted  to  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and,  leaving 
ated  there,  returned. 

The  three  had  risen,  and  their  heads  were  together  when 
,i  came  back  to  the  garret. 

“How  say  yon,  Jacques?^’  demanded  ISTumber  One. 
To  be  registered? 

To  be  registered,  as  doomed  to  destruction,’’  returned 
efarge. 

‘‘  Magnificent ! ” croaked  the  man  with  the  craving. 

“The  chateau,  and  all  the  race?  ” inquired  the  first. 


162 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


“ The  chateau  and  all  the  race,”  returned  Defarge.  “ Ex- 
termination.” 

The  hungry  man  repeated,  in  a rapturous  croak,  “ Mag- 
nificent! ” and  began  gnawing  another  finger. 

“Are  you  sure,”  asked  Jacques  Two,  of  Defarge,  “that 
no  embarrassment  can  arise  from  our  manner  of  keeping 
the  register?  Without  doubt  it  is  safe,  for  no  one  beyond 
ourselves  can  decipher  it;  but  shall  we  always  be  able  to 
decipher  it — or,  I ought  to  say,  will  she?” 

“Jacques,”  returned  Defarge,  drawing  himself  up,  “if 
madame  my  wife  undertook  to  keep  the  register  in  her 
memory  alone,  she  would  not  lose  a word  of  it — not  a syl- 
lable of  it.  Knitted,  in  her  own  stitches  and  her  own  sym- 
bols, it  will  always  be  as  plain  to  her  as  the  sun.  Confide 
in  Madame  Defarge.  It  would  be  easier  for  the  weakest 
poltroon  that  lives,  to  erase  himself  from  existence,  than 
to  erase  one  letter  of  his  name  or  crimes  from  the  knitted 
register  of  Madame  Defarge.” 

There  was  a murmur  of  confidence  and  approval,  and 
then  the  man  who  hungered,  asked : “ Is  this  rustic  to  be 
sent  back  soon?  I hope  so.  He  is  very  simple;  is  he  not 
a little  dangerous?  ” 

“He  knows  nothing,”  said  Defarge;  “at  least  nothing 
more  than  would  easily  elevate  himself  to  a gallows  of  the 
same  height.  I charge  myself  with  him;  let  him  remair 
with  me;  I will  take  care  of  him,  and  set  him  on  his  road. 
He  wishes  to  see  the  fine  world — the  King,  the  Queen,  and 
Court;  let  him  see  them  on  Sunday.” 

“What?”  exclaimed  the  hungry  man,  staring.  “Is  b 
a good  sign,  that  he  wishes  to  see  Koyalty  and  Nobility? 

“ Jacques,”  said  Defarge;  “judiciously  show  a cat  milk 
if  you  wish  her  to  thirst  for  it.  Judiciously  show  a dog 
his  natural  prey,  if  you  wish  him  to  bring  it  down  om 
day.” 

Nothing  more  was  said,  and  the  mender  of  roads,  beins 
found  already  dozing  on  the  topmost  stair,  was  advised  h 
lay  himself  down  on  the  pallet-bed  and  take  some  rest| 
He  needed  no  persuasion,  and  was  soon  asleep.  _ ^ 

Worse  quarters  than  Defarge’ s wine-shop,  could  easil; 
have  been  found  in  Paris  for  a provincial  slave  of  that  de 
gree.  Saving  for  a mysterious  dread  of  madame  by  whiclj 
he  was  constantly  haunted,  his  life  was  very  new  am 
agreeable.  But,  madame  sat  all  day  at  her  counter,  so  ex 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


163 


)ressly  unconscious  of  him,  and  so  particularly  determined 
lot  to  perceive  that  his  being  there  had  any  connection 
vith  anything  below  the  surface,  that  he  shook  in  his 
vooden  shoes  whenever  his  eye  lighted  on  her.  For,  he 
!ontended  with  himself  that  it  was  impossible  to  foresee 
vhat  that  lady  might  pretend  next;  and  he  felt  assured 
hat  if  she  should  take  it  into  her  brightly  ornamented 
lead  to  pretend  that  she  had  seen  him  do  a murder  and 
afterwards  flay  the  victim,  she  would  infallibly  go  through 
yith  it  until  the  play  was  played  out. 

Therefore,  when  Sunday  came,  the  mender  of  roads  was 
ot  enchanted  (though  he  said  he  was)  to  find  that  madame 
/as  to  accompany  monsieur  and  himself  to  Versailles.  It 
/as  additionally  disconcerting  to  have  madame  knitting 
11  the  way  there,  in  a public  conveyance;  it  was  addition- 
lly  disconcerting  yet,  to  have  madame  in  the  crowd  in  the 
fternoon,  still  with  her  knitting  in  her  hands  as  the  crowd 
waited  to  see  the  carriage  of  the  King  and  Queen. 

You  work  hard,  madame,’^  said  a man  near  her. 

Yes,’^  answered  Madame  Defarge;  have  a good  deal 
) do.^^ 

What  do  you  make,  madame? 

^‘Many  things.” 

“For  instance ” 

“For  instance,”  returned  Madame  Defarge,  composedly, 
shrouds.” 

The  man  moved  a little  further  away,  as  soon  as  he 
)uld,  and  the  mender  of  roads  fanned  himself  with  his 
iue  cap : feeling  it  mightily  close  and  oppressive.  If  he 
3eded  a King  and  Queen  to  restore  him,  he  was  fortunate 
I having  his  remedy  at  hand;  for,  soon  the  large-faced 
ing  and  the  fair-faced  Queen  came  in  their  golden  coach, 
-tended  by  the  shining  BulFs  Eye  of  their  Court,  a glit- 
ring  multitude  of  laughing  ladies  and  fine  lords;  and  in 
wels  and  silks  and  powder  and  splendour  and  elegantly 
>urning  figures  and  handsomely  disdainful  faces  of  both 
xes,  the  mender  of  roads  bathed  himself,  so  much  to  his 
mporary  intoxication,  that  he  cried  Long  live  the  King, 
mg  live  the  Queen,  Long  live  everybody  and  everything ! 
if  he  had  never  heard  of  ubiquitous  Jacques  in  his  time, 
mn,  there  were  gardens,  courtyards,  terraces,  fountains, 
een  banks,  more  King  and  Queen,  more  BulFs  Eye,  nioie 
i^ds  and  ladies,  more  Long  live  they  all!  until  he  abso- 


164 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


lutely  wept  with  sentiment.  During  the  whole  of  this 
scene,  which  lasted  some  three  hours,  he  had  plenty  of 
shouting  and  weeping  and  sentimental  company,  and 
throughout  Defarge  held  him  by  the  collar,  as  if  to  restrain 
him  from  flying  at  the  objects  of  his  brief  devotion  and 
tearing  them  to  pieces. 

“ Bravo ! ” said  Defarge,  clapping  him  on  the  back  when 
it  was  over,  like  a patron;  “you  are  a good  boy  ! ” 

The  mender  of  roads  was  now  coming  to  himself,  and 
was  mistrustful  of  having  made  a mistake  in  his  late  dem- 
onstrations; but  no. 

“ You  are  the  fellow  we  want,”  said  Defarge,  in  his  ear; 
“you  make  these  fools  believe  that  it  will  last  for  ever. 
Then,  they  are  the  more  insolent,  and  it  is  the  nearer 
ended.” 

“ Hey ! ” cried  the  mender  of  roads,  reflectively;  “that’s 
true.” 

“ These  fools  know  nothing.  While  they  despise  your 
breath,  and  would  stop  it  for  ever  and  ever,  in  you  or  in  a 
hundred  like  you  rather  than  in  one  of  their  own  horses  or 
dogs,  they  only  know  what  your  breath  tells  them.  Let  it 
deceive  them,  then,  a little  longer;  it  cannot  deceive  them 
too  much.” 

Madame  Defarge  looked  superciliously  at  the  client,  and 
nodded  in  confirmation. 

“As  to  you,”  said  she,  “you  would  shout  and  shed  tears 
for  anything,  if  it  made  a show  and  a noise.  Say ! Would 
you  not?  ” 

“Truly,  madame,  I think  so.  For  the  moment.” 

“ If  you  were  shown  a great  heap  of  dolls,  and  were  set 
upon  them  to  pluck  them  to  pieces  and  despoil  them  for 
your  own  advantage,  you  would  pick  out  the  richest  and 
gayest.  Say!  Would  you  not? ” 

“Truly  yes,  madame.” 

“Yes.  And  if  you  were  shown  a flock  of  birds,  unable 
to  fly,  and  were  set  upon  them  to  strip  them  of  their 
feathers  for  your  own  advantage,  you  would  set  upon  the' 
birds  of  the  finest  feathers;  would  you  not?” 

“ It  is  true,  madame.  ” 

“ You  have  seen  both  dolls  and  birds  to-day,  said  Mad- 
ame Defarge,  with  a wave  of  her  hand  towards  the  place 
where  they  had  last  been  apparent;  “ now,  go  home ! ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


106 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

STILL  KNITTING. 

Madame  Defaege  and  monsieur  her  husband  "returned 
amicably  to  the  bosom  of  Saint  Antoine,  while  a speck  in 
a blue  cap  toiled  through  the  darkness,  and  through  the 
dust,  and  down  the  weary  miles  of  avenue  by  the  wayside, 
slowly  tending  towards  that  point  of  the  compass  where 
the  chateau  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  now  in  his  grave, 
listened  to  the  whispering  trees.  Such  ample  leisure  had 
Ithe  stone  faces,  now,  for  listening  to  the  trees  and  to  the 
fountain,  that  the  few  village  scarecrows  who,  in  their 
quest  for  herbs  to  eat  and  fragments  of  dead  stick  to  burn, 
strayed  within  sight  of  the  great  stone  courtyai’d  and  ter- 
race staircase,  had  it  borne  in  upon  their  starved  fancy 
that  the  expression  of  the  faces  was  altered.  A rumour 
just  lived  in  the  village — had  a faint  and  bare  existence 
mere,  as  its  people  had — that  when  the  knife  struck  home, 
the  faces  changed,  from  faces  of  pride  to  faces  of  anger 
ind  pain;  also,  that  when  that  dangling  figure  was  hauled 
ip  forty  feet  above  the  fountain,  they  changed  again,  and 
lore  a cruel  look  of  being  avenged,  which  they  would 
lenceforth  bear  for  ever.  In  the  stone  face  over  the  great 
vindow  of  the  bedchamber  where  the  murder  was  done, 
iwo  fine  dints  were  pointed  out  in  the  scupltured  nose’ 
vhich  everybody  recognised,  and  which  nobody  had  seen 
)t  old;  and  on  the  scarce  occasions  when  two  or  three 
■agged  peasants  emerged  from  the  crowd  to  take  a hurried 
)eep  at  Monsieur  the  Marquis  petrified,  a skinny  finger 
vould  not  have  pointed  to  it  for  a minute,  before  they  all 
tarted  away  among  the  moss  and  leaves,  like  the  more  for- 
unate  hares  who  could  find  a living  there. 

Chateau  and  hut,  stone  face  and  dangling  figure,  the  red 
tain  on  the  stone  floor,  and  the  pure  water  in  the  village 
/e  thousands  of  acres  of  land — a whole  province  of 
ranee— all  France  itself— lay  under  the  night  sky,  con- 
entrated  into  a faint  hair-breadth  line.  So  does  a whole 
mrld,  with  all  its  greatnesses  and  littlenesses,  lie  in  a twin- 
ling  star.  And  as  mere  human  knowledge  can  split  a ray 


1G6 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


of  light  and  analyse  the  manner  of  its  composition,  so, 
siiblimer  intelligences  may  read  in  the  feeble  shining  of 
this  earth  of  ours,  every  thought  and  act,  every  vice  and 
virtue,  of  every  responsible  creature  on  it. 

The  Defarges,  husband  and  wife,  came  lumbering  under 
the  starlight,  in  their  public  vehicle,  to  that  gate  of  Paris! 
whereuuto  their  journey  n'aturally  tended.  There  was  the: 
usual  stoppage  at  the  barrier  guard-house,  and  the  usualj 
lanterns  caine  glancing  forth  for  the  usual  examination  and 
inquiry.  Monsieur  Defarge  alighted;  knowing  one  or  two 
of  the  soldiery  there,  and  one  of  the  police.  The  latter  he 
was  intimate  with,  and  affectionately  embraced. 

When  Saint  Antoine  had  again  enfolded  the  Defarges  in 
his  dusky  wings,  and  they,  having  finally  alighted  near 
the  Saint’s  boundaries,  were  picking  their  way  on  foot! 
through  the  black  mud  and  offal  of  his  streets,  Madame 
Defarge  spoke  to  her  husband : 

Say  then,  my  friend;  what  did  Jacques  of  the  police 
tell  thee?  ” 

Very  little  to-night,  but  all  he  knows.  There  is  an- 
other spy  commissioned  for  our  quarter.  There  may  be 
many  more,  for  all  that  he  can  say,  but  he  knows  of  one.” 
Eh  well ! ” said  Madame  Defarge,  raising  her  eyebrows 
with  a cool  business  air.  It  is  necessary  to  register  him. 
How  do  they  call  that  man?  ” 

^^He  is  English.” 

So  much  the  better.  His  name?  ” 

^‘Barsad,”  said  Defarge,  making  it  French  by  pronuncia-  i 
tion.  But,  he  had  been  so  careful  to  get  it  accurately,  that: 
he  then  spelt  it  with  perfect  correctness. 

Barsad,”  repeated  niadame.  Good.  Christian  name?  ” 
John.” 

^^John  Barsad,”  repeated  madame,  after  murmuring  it, 
once  to  herself.  Good.  His  appearance;  is  it  known?  ” 
“Age,  about  forty  years;  height,  about  five  feet  nine; 
black  hair;  complexion  dark;  generally,  rather  handsome 
visage;  eyes  dark,  face  thin,  long,  and  sallow;  nose  aqui- 
line, but  not  straight,  having  a peculiar  inclination  towards 
the  left  cheek;  expression,  therefore,  sinister.” 

“ Eh  my  faith.  It  is  a portrait ! ” said  madame,  laugh- 
ing. “He  shall  be  registered  to-morrow.” 

They  turned  into  the  wine-shop,  which  was  closed  (for 
it  was  midnight),  and  where  Madame  Defarge  immediately 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


167 


took  her  post  at  her  desk,  counted  the  small  moneys  that 
had  been  taken  during  her  absence,  examined  the  stock, 
went  through  the  entries  in  the  book,  made  other  entires 
of  her  own,  checked  the  serving  man  in  every  possible  way, 
and  finally  dismissed  him  to  bed.  Then  she  turned  out  the 
contents  of  the  bowl  of  money  for  the  second  time,  and  be- 
gan knotting  them  up  in  her  handkerchief,  in  a chain  of 
separate  knots,  for  safe  keeping  through  the  night.  All 
this  while,  Defarge,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  walked  up 
and  down,  complacently  admiring,  but  never  interfering; 
in  which  condition,  indeed,  as  to  the  business  and  his  do- 
mestic affairs,  he  walked  up  and  down  through  life. 

The  night  was  hot,  and  the  shop,  close  shut  and  sur- 
rounded by  so  foul  a neighbourhood,  was  ill-smelling. 
Monsieur  Defarge  ^s  olfactory  sense  was  by  no  means  deli- 
cate, but  the  stock  of  wine  smelt  much  stronger  than  it 
ever  tasted,  and  so  did  the  stock  of  rum  and  brandy  and 
aniseed.  He  whiffed  the  compound  of  scents  away,  as  he 
put  down  his  smoked-out  pipe 

You  are  fatigued,’’  said  madame,  raising  her  glance  as 
she  knotted  the  money.  There  are  only  the  usual  odours.  ” 
am  a little  tired,”  her  husband  acknowledged. 

You  are  a little  depressed,  too,”  said  madame,  whose 
quick  eyes  had  never  been  so  intent  on  the  accounts,  but 
they  had  had  a ray  or  two  for  him.  ‘‘Oh,  the  men,  the 
men ! ” 

“ But  my  dear ! ” began  Defarge. 

“ But  my  dear ! ” repeated  madame,  nodding  firmly ; 
“but  my  dear ! You  are  faint  of  heart  to-night,  my  dear ! ” 

“ Well,  then,”  said  Defarge,  as  if  a thought  were  wrung 
out  of  his  breast,  “it  is  a long  time.” 

“It  is  a long  time,”  repeated  his  wife;  “and  when  is  it 
not  a long  time?  Vengeance  and  retribution  require  a long 
time;  it  is  the  rule.” 

^ “ It  does  not  take  a long  time  to  strike  a man  with  Light- 
ning,” said  Defarge. 

“How  long,”  demanded  madame,  composedly,  “does  it 
take  to  make  and  store  the  lightning?  Tell  me.” 

Defarge  raised  his  head  thoughtfully,  as  if  there  were 
something  in  that  too. 

“It  does  not  take  a long  time,”  said  madame,  “for  an 
earthquake  to  swallow  a town.  Eh  well!  Tell  me  how 
long  it  takes  to  prepare  the  earthquake?  ” 


168 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


‘‘A  long  time,  I suppose/^  said  Defarge. 

‘^But  when  it  is  ready,  it  takes  place,  and  grinds  t 
pieces  everything  before  it.  In  the  meantime,  it  is  alway 
preparing,  though  it  is  not  seen  or  heard.  That  is  you 
consolation.  Keep  it.’^ 

She  tied  a knot  with  flashing  eyes,  as  if  it  throttled 
foe. 

tell  thee,’^  said  madame,  extending  her  right  hand 
for  emphasis,  “ that  although  it  is  a long  time  on  the  road 
it  is  on  the  road  and  coming.  I tell  thee  it  never  retreats 
and  never  stops.  I tell  thee  it  is  always  advancing.  Lool 
around  and  consider  the  lives  of  all  the  world  that  w 
know,  consider  the  faces  of  all  the  world  that  we  know 
consider  the  rage  and  discontent  to  which  the  Jacqueri 
addresses  itself  with  more  and  more  of  certainty  ever 
hour.  Can  such  things  last?  Bah!  I mock  you.’^ 

^^My  brave  wife,’’  returned  Defarge,  standing  before  he 
with  his  head  a little  bent,  and  his  hands  clasped  at  hi 
back,  like  a docile  and  attentive  pupil  before  his  catechist 
I do  not  question  all  this.  But  it  has  lasted  a long  time 
and  it  is  possible — you  know  well,  my  wife,  it  is  possibl 
— that  it  may  not  come,  during  our  lives.” 

^^Eh  well!  How  then?”  demanded  madame,  tying  anj 
other  knot,  as  if  there  were  another  enemy  strangled. 

Well!  ” said  Defarge,  with  a half  complaining  and  hal 
a}  ologetic  shrug.  We  shall  not  see  the  triumph.”  ' 

We  shall  have  helped  it,”  returned  madame,  with  hei 
extended  hand  in  strong  action.  ^^Kothing  that  we  do,  ii: 
done  in  vain.  I believe,  with  all  my  soul,  that  we  shalj 
see  the  triumph.  But  even  if  not,  even  if  I kne^w  certain!;! 
not,  show  me  the  neck  of  an  aristocrat  and  tyrant,  and  stil 
I would ” 

Then  madame,  with  her  teeth  set,  tied  a very  terribi' 
knot  indeed. 

Hold ! ” cried  Defarge,  reddening  a little  as  if  he  fel 
charged  with  cowardice;  too,  my  dear,  will  stop  a 
nothing.” 

Yes ! But  it  is  your  weakness  that  you  sometimes  nee( 
to  see  your  victim  and  your  opportunity,  to  sustain  you 
Sustain  yourself  without  that.  When  the  time  comes,  le 
loose  a tiger  and  a devil;  but  wait  for  the  time  with  th< 
tiger  and  the  devil  chained  — not  shown  — yet  alway 
ready.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


169 


Madame  enforced  the  conclusion  of  this  piece  of  advice 
by  striking  her  little  counter  with  her  chain  of  money  as  if 
she  knocked  its  brains  out,  and  then  gathering  the  heavy 
handkerchief  under  her  arm  in  a serene  manner,  and  ob- 
serving that  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

Next  noontide  saw  the  admirable  woman  in  her  usual 
place  in  the  wine-shop,  knitting  away  assiduously.  A rose 
lay  beside  her,  and  if  she  now  and  then  glanced  at  the 
flower,  it  was  with  no  infraction  of  her  usual  preoccupied 
air.  There  were  a few  customers,  drinking  or  not  drink- 
' ing,  standing  or  seated,  sprinkled  about.  The  day  was 
very  hot,  and  heaps  of  flies,  who  were  extending  their  in- 
quisitive and  adventurous  perquisitions  into  all  the  glutin- 
ous little  glasses  near  madame,  fell  dead  at  the  bottom. 
Their  decease  made  no  impression  on  the  other  flies  out 
promenading,  who  looked  at  them  in  the  coolest  manner  (as 
if  they  thenaselves  were  elephants,  or  something  as  far  re- 
moved), until  they  met  the  same  fate.  Curious  to  consider 
how  heedless  flies  are ! — perhaps  they  thought  as  much  at 
Court  that  sunny  summer  day. 

A figure  entering  at  the  door  threw  a shadow  on  Madame 
Defarge  which  she  felt  to  be  a new  one.  She  laid  down 
her  knitting,  and  began  to  pin  her  rose  in  her  head-dress, 
before  she  looked  at  the  figure. 

It  was  curious.  The  moment  Madame  Defarge  took  up 
the  rose,  the  customers  ceased  talking,  and  began  gradually 
to  drop  out  of  the  wine-shop.  » 

“Good  day,  madame,”  said  the  new-comer. 

“Good  day,  monsieur.” 

She  said  it  aloud,  but  added  to  herself,  as  she  resumed 
her  knitting : “ Hah ! Good  day,  age  about  forty,  height 
about  five  feet  nine,  black  hair,  generally  rather  handsome 
visage,  complexion  dark,  eyes  dark,  thin,  long  and  sallow 
face,  aquiline  nose  but  not  straight,  having  a peculiar  in- 
clination towards  the  left  cheek  which  imparts  a sinister 
expression ! Good  day,  one  and  all ! ” 

“Have  the  goodness  to  give  me  a little  glass  of  old 
cognac,  and  a mouthful  of  cool  fresh  water,  madame.” 
Madame  complied  with  a polite  air. 

“ Marvellous  cognac  this,  madame ! ” 

It  was  the  first  time  it  had  ever  been  so  complimented, 
and  Madame  Defarge  knew  enough  of  its  antecedents  to 
know  better.  She  said,  however,  that  the  cognac  was  flat- 


170 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


tered,  and  took  up  her  knitting.  The  visitor  watched  her 
fingers  for  a few  moments,  and  took  the  opportunity  ot 
observing  the  place  in  general. 

“ You  knit  with  great  skill,  madame. 

“ I am  accustomed  to  it.” 

“A  pretty  pattern  too!” 

“ You  think  so?  ” said  madame,  looking  at  him  with  a 

Decidedly.  May  one  ask  what  it  is  for?  ” 

Pastime/^  said  madame,  still  looking  at  him  with  a 
smile,  while  her  fingers  moved  nimbly. 

Not  for  use? 

“That  depends.  I may  find  a use  for  it  one  day.  If  I 

do well,”  said  madame,  drawing  a breath  and  nodding 

her  head  with  a stern  kind  of  coquetry,  “ ITl  use  it ! 

It  was  remarkable;  but,  the  taste  of  Saint  Antoine 
seemed  to  be  decidedly  opposed  to  a rose  on  the  head-dress 
of  Madame  Defarge.  Two  men  had  entered  separately, 
and  had  been  about  to  order  drink,  when,  catching  sight 
of  that  novelty,  they  faltered,  made  a pretence  of  looking 
about  as  if  for  some  friend  who  was  not  there,  and  wen 
away  Nor,  of  those  who  had  been  there  when  this  visitor 
entered,  was  there  one  left.  They  had  all  dropped  off. 
The  spy  had  kept  his  eyes  open,  but  and  been  able  to  de- 
tect no  sign . They  had  lounged  away  in  a poverty-stricken , 
purposeless,  accidental  manner,  quite  natural  and  unim- 

^ “John,”  thought  madame,  checking  off  her  work  as  her 
fingers  knitted,  and  her  eyes  looked  at  the  stranger.  Stay 
long  enough,  and  I shall  knit  ‘ Babsad  before  you  go.  ^ 
You  have  a husband,  madame?  ” i 

I have.” 

Children?  ” 
children.” 

Business  seems  bad?  ” 

‘‘Business  is  very  bad;  the  people  are  so  poor. 

“Ah,  the  unfortunate,  miserable  people!  bo  o^  ^ressea 

you  say,”  madame  retorted,  correcting  him,  anc 
deftly  knitting  an  extra  something  into  his  name  that  bode 

“Pardon  me;  certainly  it  was  I who  said  so,  but  yoi 
naturally  think  so.  Of  course.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


171 


“I  think?  returned  madame,  in  a high  voice.  and 
ny  husband  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  this  wine-shop 
)pen,  without  thinking.  All  we  think,  here,  is  how  to 
ive.  That  is  the  subject  we  think  of,  and  it  gives  us, 
rom  morning  to  night,  enough  to  think  about,  without  em- 
)arrassing  our  heads  concerning  others.  / think  for  others'^ 
*^0,  no.” 

The  spy,  who  was  there  to  pick  up  any  crumbs  he  could 
ind  or  inake,  did  not  allow  his  baffled  state  to  express  it- 
elf  in  his  sinister  face  5 but,  stood  with  an  air  of  gossiping 
allantry,  leaning  his  elbow  on  Madame  Defarge’s  little 
ounter,  and  occasionally  sipping  his  cognac. 

A bad  business  this,  madame,  of  Gaspard’s  execution, 
k-h ! the  poor  Gaspard ! ” With  a sigh  of  great  compas- 
ion. 

''My  faith!  ” returned  madame,  coolly  and  lightly,  'Gf 
eople  use  knives  for  such  purposes,  they  have  to  pay  for 
He  knew  beforehand  what  the  price  of  his  luxury  was- 
e has  paid  the  price.”  ’ 

I believe,”  said  the  spy,  dropping  his  soft  voice  to  a 
me  that  invited  confidence,  and  expressing  an  injured  rev- 
iutionary  susceptibility  in  every  muscle  of  his  wicked  face : 

I believe  there  is  much  compassion  and  anger  in  this 
eighbourhood,  touching  the  poor  fellow?  Between  our- 
dves.” 

"Is  there?”  asked  madame,  vacantly. 

" Is  there  not?  ” 


"—Here  is  my  husband!  ” said  Madame  Defarge. 

As  the  keeper  of  the  wine-shop  entered  at  the  door,  the 
>y  saluted  him  by  touching  his  hat,  and  saying,  with  an 
smile,  "Good  day,  Jacques!”  Defarge  stopped 
lort,  and  stared  at  him. 


Good  day,  Jacques!  ” the  spy  repeated;  with  not  quite 
much  confidence,  or  quite  so  easy  a smile  under  the 


are. 

monsieur,”  returned  the  keeper 
the  wine-shop.  You  mistake  me  for  another.  That 
not  my  name.  I am  Ernest  Defarge.” 

It  is  all  the  same,”  said  the  spy,  airily,  but  discomfited 
0 : " good  day ! ” 

" Good  day ! ” answered  Defarge,  drily. 

I was  saying  to  madame,  with  whom  I had  the  pleas- 
e of  chatting  when  you  entered,  that  they  tell  me  there 


172 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


is— and  no  wonder!— much  sympathy  and  anger  in  Saint 
Antoine,  touching  the  unhappy  fate  of  poor  Gaspard. 

“No  one  has  told  me  so,”  said  Defarge,  shaking  his 

head  I know  nothing  of  it.’’ 

Having  said  it,  he  passed  behind  the  little  counter  and 
stood  with  his  hand  on  the  back  of  his  wife  s chair.  Do  - 
ing over  that  barrier  at  the  person  to  whom  they  were  both 
opposed,  and  whom  either  of  them  would  have  shot  with 

the  greatest  satisfaction.  ^ ^ nio 

The  spy,  well  used  to  his  business,  did  not  change  his 
unconscious  attitude,  but  drained  his  little  glass  of  cognac 
took  a sip  of  fresh  water,  and  asked  for  another  glass  of 
cognac.  Madame  Defarge  poured  it  out  for  him,  took  to 

her  knitting  again,  and  hummed  a f 

“ You  seem  to  know  this  quarter  well;  that  is  to  say, 

better  than  I do?  ” observed  Defarge 

“ Not  at  all,  but  I hope  to  know  it  better.  I^am  so  p 
foundly  interested  in  its  miserable  inhabitants. 

“Hah!”  muttered  Defarge.  . _ 

“ The  pleasure  of  conversing  with  you,  Monsieur  Defarg 
recalls  to  me,”  pursued  the  spy,  “ that  I have  the  honou 
of  cherishing  some  interesting  associations  with  you 


name. 


^“Indeed!  ” said  Defarge,  with  much  indifference. 

“ Yes  indeed  When  Doctor  Manette  was  released,  yon 
his  oH  domestic,  had  the  charge  of  him,  I kno-  He  wa 
delivered  to  you.  You  see  I am  informed  of  the  ciicun 

^*'^‘^Suc'h  is  the  fact,  certainly,”  said  Defarge. 
it  conveyed  to  him,  in  an  accidental  touch  of  ^ wife 
elbow  as  she  knitted  and  warbled,  that  he  would  do  best  1 
but  always  witb  brevity. 

“It  was  to  you,”  said  the  spy,  “that  his  daughter  cami 
and  it  was  from  your  care  that  his  daughter  fook  Inm,  a 
companied  by  a neat  brown  monsieur;  is  he  called. 

S^^7littlewig-Lorry-of  the  bank  of  Tellson  and  Coi 
pany — over  to  England.” 

“ Such  is  the  fact,”  repeated  Defarge. 

“Very  interesting  remembrances!  said  the  spy- 
have  known  Doctor  Manette  and  his  daughter,  in  En 
land.” 

“ Yes?  ” said  Defarge.  o » -.i  rv.- 

“ You  don’t  hear  much  about  them  now?  said  the  sp, 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


173 


said  Defarge. 

‘‘In  effect/^  madame  struck  in,  looking  up  from  her 
ork  and  her  little  song,  “ we  never  hear  about  them.  We 
-ceived  the  news  of  their  safe  arrival,  and  perhaps  another 
tter,  or  perhaps  two;  but,  since  then,  they  have  gradu- 
ly  taken  their  road  in  life — we,  ours — and  we  have  held 
i)  correspondence.’’ 

, Perfectly  so,  madame,”  replied  the  spy.  “She  is  go- 
■g  to  be  married.” 

“Going?”  echoed  madame.  “She  was  pretty  enough 
' have  been  married  long  ago.  You  English  are  cold,  it 
ems  to  me.” 

» “ Oh ! You  know  I am  English.” 

j “I  perceive  your  tongue  is,”  returned  madame;  “and 
that  the  tongue  is,  I suppose  the  man  is.” 

He  did  not  take  the  identification  as  a compliment;  but 

0 made  the  best  of  it,  and  turned  it  off  with  a laugh, 
if  ter  sipping  his  cognac  to  the  end,  he  added : 

“ Yes,  Miss  Manette  is  going  to  be  married.  But  not  to 

1 Englishman;  to  one  who,  like  herself,  is  French  by 
jrth.  And  speaking  of  Gaspard  (ah,  poor  Gaspard ! It 
as  cruel,  cruel!),  it  is  a curious  thing  that  she  is  going  to 
arry  the  nephew  of  Monsieur  the  Marquis,  for  whom 
aspard  was  exalted  to  that  height  of  so  many  feet;  in 
her  words,  the  present  Marquis.  But  he  lives  unknown 
. England,  he  is  no  Marquis  there;  he  is  Mr.  Charles 
larnay.  D’Aulnais  is  the  name  of  his  mother’s  family.” 

Madame  Defarge  knitted  steadily,  but  the  intelligence 
id  a palpable  effect  upon  her  husband.  Do  what  he 
ould,  behind  the  little  counter,  as  to  the  striking  of  a 
^ht  and  the  lighting  of  his  pipe,  he  was  troubled,  and 
-S  hand  was  not  trustworthy.  The  spy  would  have  been 
) spy  if  he  had  failed  to  see  it,  or  to  record  it  in  his 
ind. 

Having  made,  at  least,  this  one  hit,  whatever  it  might 
:ove  to  be  worth,  and  no  customers  coming  in  to  help  him 
> any  other,  Mr.  Barsad  paid  for  what  he  had  drunk,  and 
•ok  his  leave : taking  occasion  to  say,  in  a genteel  man- 
3r,  before  he  departed,  that  he  looked  forward  to  the 
.easure  of  seeing  Monsieur  and  Madame  Defarge  again, 
or  some  minutes  after  he  had  emerged  into  the  outer  pres- 
ice  of  Saint  Antoine,  the  husband  and  wife  remained  ex- 
5tly  as  he  had  left  them,  lest  he  should  come  back. 


174 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


“Can  it  be  true/^  said  Defarge,  in  a low  voice,  looking 
down  at  his  wife  as  he  stood  smoking  with  his  hand  on  the 
back  of  her  chair : “ what  he  has  said  of  Ma^amselle  Ma- 
nette?” 

“As  he  has  said  it,’^  returned  madame,  lifting  her  eye- 
brows a little,  “it  is  probably  false.  But  it  may  be  true.’’ 

“ If  it  is ” Defarge  began,  and  stopped. 

“If  it  is?”  repeated  his  wife. 

“ — And  if  it  does  come,  while  we  live  to  see  it  triumph 
— I hope,  for  her  sake.  Destiny  will  keep  her  husband  out 
of  France.” 

“ Her  husband’s  destiny,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  with 
her  usual  composure,  “will  take  him  where  he  is  to  go,  and 
will  lead  him  to  the  end  that  is  to  end  him.  That  is  all  I 
know.” 

“But  it  is  very  strange — now,  at  least,  is  it  not  very 
strange  ” — said  Defarge,  rather  pleading  with  his  wife  to 
induce  her  to  admit  it,  “ that,  after  all  our  sympathy  for 
Monsieur  her  father,  and  herself,  her  husband’s  name 
should  be  proscribed  under  your  hand  at  this  moment,  by 
the  side  of  that  infernal  dog’s  who  has  just  left  us?  ” 

“ Stranger  things  than  that  will  happen  when  it  does 
come,”  answered  madame.  “I  have  them  both  here,  of  a 
certainty;  and  they  are  both  here  for  their  merits;  that  is 
enough.” 

She  rolled  up  her  knitting  when  she  had  said  those 
words,  and  presently  took  the  rose  out  of  the  handkerchief 
that  was  wound  about  her  head.  Either  Saint  Antoine  had 
an  instinctive  sense  that  the  objectionable  decoration  was 
gone,  or  Saint  Antoine  was  on  the  watch  for  its  disappear- 
ance; howbeit,  the  Saint  took  courage  to  lounge  in,  very 
shortly  afterwards,  and  the  wine-shop  recovered  its  habitual 
aspect. 

In  the  evening,  at  which  season  of  all  others  Saint  An- 
toine turned  himself  inside  out,  and  sat  on  door-steps  and 
window-ledges,  and  came  to  the  corners  of  vile  streets  and 
courts,  for  a breath  of  air,  Madame  Defarge  with  her  work 
in  her  hand  was  accustomed  to  pass  from  place  to  place  and 
form  group  to  group : a Missionary — there  were  many  like 
her — such  as  the  world  will  do  well  never  to  breed  again. 
All  the  women  knitted.  They  knitted  worthless  things; 
but,  the  mechanical  work  was  a mechanical  substitute  for 
eating  and  drinking;  the  hands  moved  for  the  jaws  and 


TALE  OF  TWO  CITIE8. 


175 


the  digestive  apparatus ; if  the  bony  fingers  had  been  still, 
the  stomachs  would  have  been  more  famine- pinched. 

But,  as  the  fingers  went,  the  eyes  went,  and  the 
thoughts.  And  as  Madame  Defarge  moved  on  from  group 
to  group,  all  three  went  quicker  and  fiercer  among  every 
little  knot  of  women  that  she  had  spoken  with,  and  left 
behind. 

Her  husband  smoked  at  his  door,  looking  after  her  with 
admiration.  A great  woman, said  he,  ^‘a  strong  woman, 
a grand  woman,  a frightfully  grand  woman! 

Darkness  closed  around,  and  then  came  the  ringing  of 
church  bells  and  the  distant  beating  of  the  military  drums 
in  the  Palace  Courtyard,  as  the  women  sat  knititng,  knit- 
ting. Darkness  encompassed  them.  Another  darkness  was 
closing  in  as  surely,  when  the  church  bells,  then  ringing 
pleasantly  in  many  an  airy  steeple  over  France,  should  be 
melted  into  thundering  cannon;  when  the  military  drums 
should  be  beating  to  drown  a wretched  voice,  that  night  all 
potent  as  the  voice  of  Power  and  Plenty,  Freedom  and 
Life.  So  much  was  closing  in  about  the  women  who  sat 
knitting,  knitting,  that  they  their  very  selves  were  closing 
in  around  a structure  yet  unbuilt,  where  they  were  to  sit 
knitting,  knitting,  counting  dropping  heads. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ONE  NIGHT. 

Never  did  the  sun  go  down  with  a brighter  glory  on  the 
quiet  corner  in  Soho,  than  one  memorable  evening  when  the 
Doctor  and  his  daughter  sat  under  the  plane-tree  together. 
Never  did  the  moon  rise  with  a milder  radiance  over  great 
London,  than  on  that  night  when  it  found  them  still  seated 
under  the  tree,  and  shone  upon  their  faces  through  its 
leaves. 

Lucie  was  to  be  married  to-morrow.  She  had  reserved 
this  last  evening  for  her  father,  and  they  sat  alone  under 
the  plane-tree. 

“You  are  happy,  my  dear  father?  ” 

“Quite,  my  child.’’ 


176 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


^ They  had  said  little,  though  they  had  been  there  a long 
time.  When  it  was  yet  light  enough  to  work  and  read,  she 
had  neither  engaged  herself  in  her  usual  work,  nor  had  she 
read  to  him.  She  had  employed  herself  in  both  ways,  at 
his  side  under  the  tree,  many  and  many  a time;  but,  this 
time  was  not  quite  like  any  other,  and  nothing  could  make 
it  so. 

‘‘And  I am  very  happy  to-night,  dear  father.  I am 
deeply  happy  in  the  love  that  Heaven  has  so  blessed — my 
love  for  Charles,  and  Charles’s  love  for  me.  But,  if  my 
life  were  not  to  be  still  consecrated  to  you,  or  if  my  mar- 
riage were  so  arranged  as  that  it  would  part  us,  even  by 
the  length  of  a few  of  these  streets,  I should  be  more  un- 
happy and  self-reproachful  now  than  I can  tell  you.  Even 
as  it  is ” 

Even  as  it  was,  she  could  not  command  her  voice. 

In  the  sad  moonlight,  she  clasped  him  by  the  neck,  and 
laid  her  face  upon  his  breast.  In  the  moonlight  which  is 
always  sad,  as  the  light  of  the  sun  itself  is — as  the  light 
called  human  life  is — at  its  coming  and  its  going. 

“ Dearest  dear ! Can  you  tell  me,  this  last  time,  that  you 
feel  quite,  quite  sure,  no  new  affections  of  mine,  and  no 
new  duties  of  mine,  will  ever  interpose  between  us?  1 
know  it  well,  but  do  you  know  it*^  In  your  own  heart,  do 
you  feel  quite  certain?  ” 

Her  father  answered,  with  a cheerful  firmness  of  convic- 
tion he  could  scarcely  have  assumed,  “Quite  sure,  my 
darling!  More  than  that,”  he  added,  as  he  tenderly  kissed 
her : “ my  future  is  far  brighter,  Lucie,  seen  through  your 
marriage,  than  it  could  have  been — nay,  than  it  ever  was— 
without  it.  ” 

“ If  I could  hope  that^  my  father ! — - — ” 

“ Believe  it,  love ! Indeed  it  is  so.  Consider  how  nat- 
ural and  how  plain  it  is,  my  dear,  that  it  should  be  so. 
You,  devoted  and  young,  cannot  fully  appreciate  the  anxi- 
ety I have  felt  that  your  life  should  not  be  wasted ” 

She  moved  her  hand  towards  his  lips,  but  he  took  it  in 
his,  and  repeated  the  word. 

“ — wasted,  my  child — should  not  be  wasted,  struck  aside 
from  the  natural  order  of  things — for  my  sake.  Your  un- 
selfishness cannot  entirely  comprehend  how  much  my  mind 
has  gone  on  this;  but,  only  ask  yourself,  how  could  my 
happiness  be  perfect,  while  yours  was  incomplete?  ” ^ 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


177 


“ If  I had  never  seen  Charles,  my  father,  I should  have 
been  quite  happy  with  you.” 

He  smiled  at  her  unconscious  admission  that  she  would 
have  been  unhappy  without  Charles,  having  seen  him:  and 
replied ; 

“ My  child,  you  did  see  him,  and  it  is  Charles.  If  it  had 
not  been  Charles,  it  would  have  been  another.  Or,  if  it 
had  been  no  other,  I should  have  been  the  cause,  and  then 
the  dark  part  of  my  life  would  have  cast  its  shadow  be- 
yond myself,  and  would  have  fallen  on  you.” 

It  was  the  first  time,  except  at  the  trial,  of  her  ever 
hearing  him  refer  to  the  period  of  his  sufPering.  It  gave 
her  a strange  and  new  sensation  while  his  words  were  in 
her  ears;  and  she  remembered  it  long  afterwards. 

“ See ! ” said  the  Doctor  of  Beauvais,  raising  his  hand 
towards  the  moon.  “ I have  looked  at  her  from  my  prison- 
window,  when  I could  not  bear  her  light.  I have  looked 
at  her  when  it  has  been  such  torture  to  me  to  think  of  her 
shining  upon  what  I had  lost,  that  I have  beaten  my  head 
against  my  prison- walls.  I have  looked  at  her,  in  a state 
so  dull  and  lethargic,  that  I have  thought  of  nothing  but 
the  number  of  horizontal  lines  I could  draw  across  her  at 
the  full,  and  the  number  of  perpendicular  lines  with  which 
I could  intersect  them.^’  He  added  in  his  inward  and 
pondering  manner,  as  he  looked  at  the  moon,  “It  was 
either  way,  I remember,  and  the  twentieth  was 
litticult  m squeeze  in.” 

'^he  strange  thrill  with  which  she  heard  him  go  back  to 
that  time,  deepened  as  he  dwelt  upon  it;  but,  there  was 
aothing  to  shock  her  in  the  manner  of  his  reference.  He 
mly  seemed  to  contrast  his  present  cheerfulness  and  felic- 
ty  with  the  dire  endurance  that  was  over. 

“ I have  looked  at  her,  speculating  thousands  of  times 
child  from  whom  I had  been  rent. 
Whether  it  was  alive.  Whether  it  had  been  born  alive,  or 
;he  poor  mother’s  shock  had  killed  it.  Whether  it  was  a 
ion  who  would  some  day  avenge  his  father.  (There  was  a 
ime  in  my  imprisonment,  when  my  desire  for  vengeance 
vas  unbearable.)  Whether  it  was  a son  who  would  never 
:now  his  father’s  story;  who  might  even  live  to  weigh  the 
possibility  of  his  father’s  having  disayjpeared  of  his  own 
VI  [ and  act.  Whether  it  was  a daughter  who  would  grow 
o be  a woman.”  . 

12 


178 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


She  drew  closer  to  him,  and  kissed  his  cheek  and  his 
hand. 

I have  pictured  my  daughter,  to  myself,  as  perfectly 
forgetful  of  me — rather,  altogether  ignorant  of  me,  and  un- 
conscious of  me.  I have  cast  up  the  years  of  her  age,  year 
after  year.  I have  seen  her  married  to  a man  who  knew 
nothing  of  my  fate.  I have  altogether  perished  from  the 
remembrance  of  the  living,  and  in  the  next  generation  my 
place  was  a blank.” 

My  father ! Even  to  hear  that  you  had  such  thoughts 
of  a daughter  who  never  existed,  strikes  to  my  heart  as  if 
I had  been  that  child.” 

You,  Lucie?  It  is  out  of  the  consolation  and  restora- 
tion you  have  brought  to  me,  that  these  remembrances 
arise,  and  pass  between  us  and  the  moon  on  this  last  night. 
— What  did  I say  just  now?  ” 

She  knew  nothing  of  you.  She  cared  nothing  for  you.” 

So ! But  on  other  moonlight  nights,  when  the  sadness 
and  the  silence  have  touched  me  in  a different  way — have 
affected  me  with  something  as  like  a sorrowful  sense  of 
peace,  as  any  emotion  that  had  pain  for  its  foundations 
could — I have  imagined  her  as  coming  to  me  in  my  cell, 
and  leading  me  out  into  the  freedom  beyond  the  fortress. 
I have  seen  her  image  in  the  moonlight  often,  as  I now 
see  you;  except  that  I never  held  her  in  my  arms;  it  stood 
between  the  little  grated  window  and  the  door.  But,  you 
understand  that  that  was  not  the  child  I am  speaking  of?  ” 
^^The  figure  was  not;  the — the — image;  the  fancy?  ” 
^^ISTo.  That  was  another  thing.  It  stood  before  my  dis- 
turbed sense  of  sight,  but  it  never  moved.  The  phantom 
that  my  mind  pursued,  was  another  and  more  real  child. 
Of  her  outward  appearance  I know  no  more  than  that  she 
was  like  her  mother.  The  other  had  that  likeness  too— as 
you  have — but  was  not  the  same.  Can  you  follow  me, 
Lucie?  Hardly,  I think?  I doubt  you  must  have  been  a 
solitary  prisoner  to  understand  these  perplexed  distinc- 
tions.” 

His  collected  and  calm  manner  could  not  prevent  her 
blood  from  running  cold,  as  he  thus  tried  to  anatomise  his 
old  condition. 

In  that  more  peaceful  state,  I have  imagined  her,  in 
the  moonlight,  coming  to  me  and  taking  me  out  to  show  me 
that  the  home  of  her  married  life  was  full  of  her  loving  re- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


179 


membrance  of  her  lost  father.  My  picture  was  in  her 
room,  and  I was  in  her  prayers.  Her  life  was  active, 
cheerful,  useful;  but  my  poor  history  pervaded  it  all.” 

“ I was  that  child,  my  father,  I was  not  half  so  good, 
but  in  my  love  that  was  I.” 

“And  she  showed  me  her  children,”  said  the  Doctor  of 
Beauvais,  ‘ and  they  had  heard  of  me,  and  had  been  taught 
to  pity  me.  When  they  passed  a prison  of  the  State,  they 
kept  far  from  its  frowning  walls,  and  looked  up  at  its  bars, 
and  spoke  in  whispers.  She  could  never  deliver  me;  I im- 
agined that  she  always  brought  me  back  after  showing  me 
5uch  things.  But  then,  blessed  with  the  relief  of  tears,  I 
fell  upon  my  knees,  and  blessed  her.” 

I am  that  child,  I hope,  my  father.  O my  dear,  my 
iear,  will  you  bless  me  as  fervently  to-morrow?  ” 

“Lucie,  I recall  these  old  troubles  in  the  reason  that  I 
lave  to-night  for  loving  you  better  than  words  can  tell,  and 
;hanking  God  for  my  great  happiness.  My  thoughts,  when 
Ley  were  wildest,  never  rose  near  the  happiness  that  I 
lave  known  with  you,  and  that  we  have  before  us.” 

He  embraced  her,  solemnly  commended  her  to  Heaven, 
ind  humbly  thanked  Heaven  for  having  bestowed  her  on 
lim.  By-and-bye,  they  went  into  the  house. 

There  was  no  one  bidden  to  the  marriage  but  Mr.  Lorry; 
Lere  was  even  to  be  no  bridesmaid  but  the  gaunt  Miss 
rross.  The  marriage  was  to  make  no  change  in  their  place 
)f  residence;  they  had  been  able  to  extend  it,  by  taking  to 
hemselves  the  upper  rooms  formerly  belonging  to  the 
ipocryphal  invisible  lodger,  and  they  desired  nothing 
nore. 

Doctor  Manette  was  very  cheerful  at  the  little  supper.’ 
fhey  were  only  three  at  table,  and  Miss  Pross  made  the 
hird  He  regretted  that  Charles  was  not  there;  was  more 
han  half  disposed  to  object  to  the  loving  little  plot  that 
:ept  him  away;  and  drank  to  him  affectionately. 

So,  the  time  came  for  him  to  bid  Lucie  good  night,  and 
hey  sepa,rated.  But,  in  the  stillness  of  the  third  hour  of 
he  morning,  Lucie  came  down-stairs  again,  and  stole  into 
iis  room;  not  free  from  unshaped  fears,  beforehand. 

All  things,  however,  were  in  their  places;  all  was  quiet; 

hair  picturesque  on  the  un- 
roubled  pillow,  and  his  hands  lying  quiet  on  the  coverlet, 
-he  put  her  needless  candle  in  the  shadow  at  a distance. 


180 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


crept  up  to  his  bed,  and  put  her  lips  to  his;  ,then,  leaned 
over  him,  and  looked  at  him. 

Into  his  handsome  face,  the  bitter  waters  of  captivity 
had  worn;  but,  he  covered  up  their  tracks  with  a deter- 
mination so  strong,  that  he  held  the  mastery  of  them  even 
in  his  sleep.  A more  remarkable  face  in  its  quiet,  resolute, 
and  guarded  struggle  with  an  unseen  assailant,  was  not  to 
be  beheld  in  all  the  wide  dominions  of  sleep,  that  night. 

She  timidly  laid  her  hand  on  his  dear  breast,  and  put  up 
a prayer  that  she  might  ever  be  as  true  to  him  as  her  love 
aspired  to  be,  and  as  his  sorrows  deserved.  Then,  she 
withdrew  her  hand,  and  kissed  his  lips  once  more,  and 
went  away.  So,  the  sunrise  came,  and  the  shadows  of  the 
leaves  of  the  plane-tree  moved  upon  his  face,  as  softly  as 
her  lips  had  moved  in  praying  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

NINE  DAYS. 

The  marriage-day  was  shining  brightly,  and  they  were 
ready  outside  the  closed  door  of  the  Doctor’s  room,  where 
he  was  speaking  with  Charles  Darnay.  They  were  ready 
to  go  to  church;  the  beautiful  bride,  Mr.  Lorry,  and  Misd 
Pross — to  whom  the  event,  through  a gradual  process  of 
reconcilement  to  the  inevitable,  would  have  been  one  of! 
absolute  bliss,  but  for  the  yet  lingering  consideration  that 
her  brother  Solomon  should  have  been  the  bridegroom. 

“ And  so,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  who  could  not  sufficientlj 
admire  the  bride,  and  who  had  been  moving  round  her  tc 
take  in  every  point  of  her  quiet,  pretty  dress;  “and  so  it 
was  for  this,  my  sweet  Lucie,  that  I brought  you  across  the 
Channel,  such  a baby!  Lord  bless  me!  How  little  1 
thought  what  I was  doing ! How  lightly  I valued  the 
obligation  I was  conferring  on  my  friend  Mr.  Charles!” 

“ You  didn’t  mean  it,”  remarked  the  matter-of-fact  Misf 
Pross,  “ and  therefore  how  could  you  know  it?  Nonsense ! ’ 

“Keally?  Well;  but  don’t  cry,”  said  the  gentle  Mr 
Lorry. 

“I  am  not  crying,”  said  Miss  Pross;  “yow  are.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


181 


my  Pross?  ” (By  this  time,  Mr.  Lorry  dared  to  be 
pleasant  with  her,  on  occasion.) 

You  were,  just  now;  I saw  you  do  it,  and  I don’t  won- 
der at  it.  Such  a present  of  plate  as  you  have  made  ’em, 
IS  enough  to  bring  tears  into  anybody’s  eyes.  There’s  not 
^a  fork  or  a spoon  in  the  collection,”  said  Miss  Pross,  ^^that 
I didn’t  cry  over,  last  night  after  the  box  came,  till  I 
couldn’t  see  it.” 

I am  highly  gratified,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “though,  upon 
iny  honour,  I had  no  intention  of  rendering  those  trifling 
jirticles  of  remembrance  invisible  to  any  one.  Dear  me ! 
jlhis  is  an  occasion  that  makes  a man  speculate  on  all  he 
u'las  lost.  Dear,  dear,  dear!  To  think  that  there  might 

dmLM^”°  ^ 

“ Not  at  all ! ” From  Miss  Pross. 

, “ You  think  there  never  might  have  been  a Mrs.  Lorry?  ” 
isked  the  gentleman  of  that  name. 

“Pooh!  ” rejoined  Miss  Pross;  “you  were  a bachelor  in 
mr  cradle.” 


I “Well!”  observed  Mr.  Lorry,  beamingly  adjusting  his 
ittle  wig,  that  seems  probable,  too.” 

“And  you  were  cut  out  for  a bachelor,”  pursued  Miss 
ross,  “ before  you  were  put  in  your  cradle.” 

Then,  I think,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “that  I was  very  un- 
handsomely dealt  with,  and  that  I ought  to  have  had  a 
ijOice  in  the  selection  of  my  pattern.  Enough ! Now,  my 
ear  Lucie,”  drawing  his  arm  soothingly  round  her  waist, 
hear  them  moving  in  the  next  room,  and  Miss  Pross  and 
, as  two  formal  folks  of  business,  are  anxious  not  to  lose 
jie  final  opportunity  of  saying  something  to  you  that  you 
jish  to  hear.  You  leave  your  good  father,  my  dear,  in 
ands  as  earnest  and  as  loving  as  your  own;  he  shall  be 
^iken  every  conceivable  care  of;  during  the  next  fortnight 
liile  you  are  in  Warwickshire  and  thereabouts,  even  Tell- 
jm  s shall  go  to  the  wall  (comparatively  speaking)  before 
) m.  when,  at  the  fortnight’s  end,  he  comes  to  join 

)u  and  your  beloved  husband,  on  your  other  fortnight’s 
■ ip  in  Wales,  you  shall  say  that  we  have  sent  him  to  you 
the  best  health  and  in  the  happiest  frame.  Now,  I hear 
)inebody’s  step  coming  to  the  door.  Let  me  kiss  my  dear 
^ 1-1  with  an  old-fashioned  bachelor  blessing,  before  Some- 
.•dy  comes  to  claim  his  own.” 


182 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


For  a moment,  he  held  the  fair  face  from  him  to  look  at 
the  Avell-remembered  expression  on  the  forehead,  and  then 
laid  the  bright  golden  hair  against  his  little  brown  wig, 
with  a genuine  tenderness  and  delicacy  which,  if  such 
things  be  old-fashioned,  were  as  old  as  Adam. 

The  door  of  the  Doctor’s  room  opened,  and  he  came  out 
with  Charles  Darnay.  He  was  so  deadly  pale — which  had 
not  been  the  case  when  they  went  in  together — that  no 
vestige  of  colour  was  to  be  seen  in  his  face.  But,  in  the 
composure  of  his  manner  he  was  unaltered,  except  that  to 
the  shrewd  glance  of  Mr.  Lorry  it  disclosed  some  shadowy 
indication  that  the  old  air  of  avoidance  and  dread  had  lately 
passed  over  him,  like  a cold  wind. 

He  gave  his  arm  to  his  daughter,  and  took  her  down- 
stairs to  the  chariot  which  Mr.  Lorry  had  hired  in  honour 
of  the  day.  The  rest  followed  in  another  carriage,  and 
soon,  in  a neighbouring  church,  where  no  strange  eyes 
looked  on,  Charles  Darnay  and  Lucie  Manette  were  happily 
married. 

Besides  the  glancing  tears  that  shone  among  the  smiles 
of  the  little  group  when  it  was  done,  some  diamonds,  very 
bright  and  sparkling,  glanced  on  the  bride’s  hand,  which 
Avere  newly  released  from  the  dark  obscurity  of  one  of  Mr. 
Lorry’s  pockets.  They  returned  home  to  breakfast,  and 
all  went  well,  and  in  due  course  the  golden  hair  that  had 
mingled  with  the  poor  shoemaker’s  white  locks  in  the  Baiis 
garret,  were  mingled  with  them  again  in  the  morning  sun- 
light, on  the  threshold  of  the  door  at  parting. 

It  was  a hard  parting,  though  it  was  not  for  long.  But 
her  father  cheered  her,  and  said  at  last,  gently  disengaging 
himself  from  her  enfolding  arms,  “Take  her,  Charles! 
She  is  yours ! ” _ . 

And  her  agitated  hand  waved  to  them  from  a chaise  win- 
dow, and  she  was  gone. 

Tlie  corner  being  out  of  the  way  of  the  idle  and  curious, 
and  the  preparations  having  been  very  simple  and  few,  the 
Doctor,  Mr.  Lorry,  and  Miss  Pross,  were  left  quite  alone. 
It  was  when  they  turned  into  the  welcome  shade  of  thei 
cool  old  hall,  that  Mr.  Lorry  observed  a great  change  to 
have  come  over  the  Doctor;  as  if  the  golden  arm  uplifted 
there,  had  struck  him  a poisoned  blow. 

He  had  naturally  repressed  much,  and  some  revulsion 
might  ha\'e  been  expected  in  him  when  the  occasion  foi 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES,  183 

repression  was  gone.  But,  it  was  the  old  scared  lost  look 
that  troubled  Mr.  Lorry;  and  through  his  absent  manner 
of  clasping  his  head  and  drearily  wandering  away  into  his 
own  room  when  they  got  up-stairs,  Mr.  Lorry  was  reminded 
of  Defarge  the  wine-shop  keeper,  and  the  starlight  ride. 

I think, he  whispered  to  Miss  Pross,  after  anxious 
consideration,  I think  we  had  best  not  speak  to  him  just 
now,  or  at  all  disturb  him.  I must  look  in  at  Tellson’s;  so 
I will  go  there  at  once  and  come  back  presently.  Then,  we 
will  take  him  a ride  into  the  country,  and  dine  there,  and 
all  will  be  well.’’ 

It  was  easier  for  Mr.  Lorry  to  look  in  at  Tellson’s,  than 
to  look  out  of  Tellson’s.  He  was  detained  two  hours. 
When  he  came  back,  he  ascended  the  old  staircase  alone, 
liaving  asked  no  question  of  the  servant;  going  thus  into 
jhe  Doctor’s  rooms,  he  was  stopped  by  a low  sound  of 
iiiocking. 

I Good  God ! ” he  said,  with  a start.  What’s  that?  ” 

Miss  Pross,  with  a terrified  face,  was  at  his  ear.  ''  O me, 

3 me ! ^ All  is  lost ! ” cried  she,  wringing  her  hands. 

, What  is  to  be  told  to  Ladybird?  He  doesn’t  know  me, 
'ind  is  making  shoes ! ” 

Ml.  Lorry  said  what  he  could  to  calm  her,  and  went 
limself  into  the  Doctor’s  room.  The  bench  was  turned 
owards  the  light,  as  it  had  been  when  he  had  seen  the 
hoemaker  at  his  work  before,  and  his  head  was  bent 
lown,  and  he  was  very  busy. 

‘^Doctor  Manette.  My  dear  friend.  Doctor  Manette ! ” 

The  Doctor  looked  at  him  for  a moment — half  inquir- 
Qgly,  half  as  if  he  were  angry  at  being  spoken  to— and 
>ent  over  his  work  again. 

He  had  laid  aside  his  coat  and  waistcoat;  his  shirt  was 
pen  at  the  throat,  as  it  used  to  be  when  he  did  that  work; 
nd  even  the  old  haggard,  faded  surface  of  face  had  come 
ack  to  him.  He  worked  hard — impatiently — as  if  in 
ome  sense  of  having  been  interrupted. 

Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  work  in  his  hand,  and  observed 
hat  It  was  a shoe  of  the  old  size  and  shape.  He  took 
p another  that  was  lying  by  him,  and  asked  what  it 
^as? 

A young  lady’s  walking  shoe,”  he  muttered,  without 
)oking  up.  ‘^It  ought  to  have  been  finished  lon^  ago. 
letitbe.”  ^ ^ 


1<S4  A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

But,  Doctor  Manette.  Look  at  me ! ’’ 

He  obeyed,  in  the  old  mechanically  submissive  manner, 
without  pausing  in  his  work. 

You  know  me,  my  dear  friend?*  Think  again.  This 
is  not  your  proper  occupation.  Think,  dear  friend!  ” 
Nothing  would  induce  him  to  speak  more.  He  looked 
up,  for  an  instant  at  a time,  when  he  was  requested  to  do 
so;  but,  no  persuasion  would  extract  a word  from  him. 
He  worked,  and  worked,  and  worked,  in  silence,  and 
words  fell  on  him  as  they  would  have  fallen  on  an  echoless 
wall,  or  on  the  air.  The  only  ray  of  hope  that  Mr.  Lorry 
could  discover,  was,  that  he  sometimes  furtively  looked  up 
without  being  asked.  In  that,  there  seemed  a faint  ex- 
pression of  curiosity  or  perplexity — as  though  he  were  try- 
ing to  reconcile  some  doubts  in  his  mind. 

Two  things  at  once  impressed  themselves  on  Mr.  Lorry, 
as  important  above  all  others;  the  first,  that  this  must  be 
kept  secret  from  Lucie;  the  second,  that  it  must  be  kept 
secret  from  all  who  knew  him.  In  conjunction  with  Miss 
Pross,  he  took  immediate  steps  towards  the  latter  precau- 
tion, by  giving  out  that  the  Doctor  was  not  well,  and  re- 
quired a few  days  of  complete  rest.  In  aid  of  the  kind  de- 
ception to  be  practised  on  his  daughter.  Miss  Pross  was  to 
write,  describing  his  having  been  called  away  profession- 
ally, and  referring  to  an  imaginary  letter  of  two  or  three 
hurried  lines  in  his  own  hand,  represented  to  have  been  ad- 
dressed to  her  by  the  same  post. 

These  measures,  advisable  to  be  taken  in  any  case,  Mr. 
Lorry  took  in  the  hope  of  his  coming  to  himself.  If  that 
should  happen  soon,  he  kept  another  course  in  reserve; 
which  was,  to  have  a certain  opinion  that  he  thought  thei 
best,  on  the  Doctor’s  case. 

In  the  hope  of  his  recovery,  and  of  resort  to  this  third 
course  being  thereby  rendered  practicable,  Mr.  Lorry  re- 
solved to  watch  him  attentively,  with  as  little  appearance! 
as  possible  of  doing  so.  He  therefore  made  arrangements 
to  absent  himself  from  Tellson’s  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  and  took  his  post  by  the  window  in  the  same  room. 

He  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  it  was  worse  thaui 
useless  to  speak  to  him,  since,  on  being  pressed,  he  became 
worried.  He  abandoned  that  attempt  on  the  first  day,  and 
resolved  merely  to  keep  himself  always  before  him,  as  a 
silent  protest  against  the  delusion  into  which  he  had  fallen, 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


186 


or  was  falling.  He  remained,  therefore,  in  his  seat  near 
the  window,  reading  and  writing,  and  expressing  in  as 
paany  pleasant  and  natural  ways  as  he  could  think  of,  that 
it  was  a free  place. 

i Doctor  Manette  took  what  was  given  him  to  eat  and 
irink,  and  worked  on,  that  first  day,  until  it  was  too  dark 
CO  see  worked  on,  half  an  hour  after  Mr.  Dorry  could  not 
iiave  seen,  for  his  life,  to  read  or  write.  When  he  put  his 
^jools  aside  as  useless,  until  morning,  Mr.  Lorry  rose  and 
j(!aid  to  him : 

“ Will  you  go  out?  ” 

He  looked  down  at  the  floor  on  either  side  of  him  in  the 
)ld  manner,  looked  up  in  the  old  manner,  and  repeated  in 
^;he  old  low  voice : 

“Out?” 

“Yes;  for  a walk  with  me.  Why  not?” 
i He  made  no  effort  to  say  why  not,  and  said  not  a word 
more.  But,  Mr.  Lorry  thought  he  saw,  as  he  leaned  for- 
ward on  his  bench  in  the  dusk,  with  his  elbows  on  his 
.nees  and-  his  head  in  his  hands,  that  he  was  in  some  misty 
Vay  asking  himself,  “ Why  not?  ” The  sagacity  of  the 
man  of  business  perceived  an  advantage  here,  and  deter- 
ained  to  hold  it. 

Miss  Pross  and  he  divided  the  night  into  two  watches, 
nd  observed  him  at  intervals  from  the  adjoining  room, 
le  paced  up  and  down  for  a long  time  before  he  lay  down; 
lUt,  when  he  did  finally  lay  himself  down,  he  fell  asleep! 
n the  morning,  he  was  up  betimes,  and  went  straight  to 
iis  bench  and  to  work. 

On  this  second  day,  Mr.  Lorry  saluted  him  cheerfully 
y his  name,  and  spoke  to  him  on  topics  that  had  been  of 
jite  familiar  to  them.  He  returned  no  reply,  but  it  was 
vident  that  he  heard  what  was  said,  and  that  he  thought 
bout  it,  however  confusedly.  This  encouraged  Mr.  Lorry 
■)  have  Miss  Pross  in  with  her  work,  several  times  during 
le  day;  at  those  times,  they  quietly  spoke  of  Lucie,  and 
(t  her  father  then  present,  precisely  in  the  usual  manner, 
md  as  if  there  were  nothing  amiss.  This  was  done  with- 
rit  any  demonstrative  accompaniment,  not  long  enough,  or 
:ten  enough  to  harass  him;  and  it  lightened  Mr.  Lorry’s 
lendly  heart  to  believe  that  he  looked  up  ofteuer,  and 
lat  he  appeared  to  be  stirred  by  some  perception  of  incou- 
stencies  surrounding  him. 


186 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


When  it  fell  dark  again,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  as  be- 
fore : 

^^Dear  Doctor,  will  you  go  out?” 

As  before,  he  repeated,  Out?  ” 

Yes;  for  a walk  with  me.  Why  not?  ” 

This  time,  Mr.  Lorry  feigned  to  go  out  when  he  could 
extract  no  answer  from  him,  and,  after  remaining  absent 
for  an  hour^  returned.  In  the  meanwhile,  the  Doctor  had 
removed  to  the  seat  in  the  window,  and  had  sat  there  look- 
ing down  at  the  plane-tree;  but,  on  Mr.  Lorry’s  return,  he 
slipped  away  to  his  bench. 

The  time  went  very  slowly  on,  and  Mr.  Lorry’s  hope 
darkened,  and  his  heart  grew  heavier  again,  and  grew  yet 
heavier  and  heavier  every  day.  The  third  day  came  and 
went,  the  fourth,  the  fifth.  Five  days,  six  days,  seven 
days,  eight  days,  nine  days. 

With  a hope  ever  darkening,  and  with  a heart  always 
growing  heavier  and  heavier,  Mr.  Lorry  passed  through 
this  anxious  time.  The  secret  was  well  kept,  and  Lucie 
was  unconscious  and  happy;  but  he  could  not  fail  to  ob- 
serve that  the  shoemaker,  whose  hand  had  been  a little  out 
at  first,  was  growing  dreadfully  skilful,  and  that  he  had 
never  been  so  intent  on  his  work,  and  that  his  hands  had 
never  been  so  nimble  and  expert,  as  in  the  dusk  of  the 
ninth  evening. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

AN  OPINION. 

Worn  out  by  anxious  watching,  Mr.  Lorry  fell  asleep  at 
his  post.  On  the  tenth  morning  of  his  suspense,  he  was 
startled  by  the  shining  of  the  sun  into  the  room  where  a 
heavy  slumber  had  overtaken  him  when  it  was  dark 
night. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  roused  himself;  but  he  doubted, 
when  he  had  done  so,  whether  he  was  not  still  asleep. 
For,  going  to  the  door  of  the  Doctor’s  room  and  looking  in, 
he  perceived  that  the  shoemaker’s  bench  and  tools  were 
put  aside  again,  and  that  the  Doctor  himself  sat  reading  at 
the  window.  He  was  in  his  usual  morning  dress,  and  his 


j A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES.  187 

face  (which  Mr.  Lorry  could  distinctly  see),  though  still 
, very  pale,  was  calmly  studious  and  attentive, 
j Lven  when  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  he  was  awake, 

I Mr.  Lorry  felt  giddily  uncertain  for  some  few  moments 
..whether  the  late  shoemaking  might  not  be  a disturbed 
(dream  of  his  own;  for,  did  not  his  eyes  show  him  his  friend 
jjbefore  him  in  his  accustomed  clothing  and  aspect,  and  em. 
ployed  as  usual;  and  was  there  any  sign  within  their  range, 

i. that  the  change  of  which  he  had  so  strong  an  impression 
had  actually  happened? 

I It  was  but  the  inquiry  of  his  first  confusion  and  aston- 
ishment,  the  answer  being  obvious.  If  the  impression  were 
not  produced  by  a real  corresponding  and  sufficient  cause, 
;how  came  he,  Jarvis  Lorry,  there?  How  came  he  to  have 
fallen  asleep,  in  his  clothes,  on  the  sofa  in  Doctor  Manette’s 
consulting- room,  and  to  be  debating  these  points  outside 
,ne  Doctor’s  bedroom  door  in  the  early  morning? 

I _ Within  a few  minutes.  Miss  Pross  stood  whispering  at 
iis  side.  If  he  had  had  any  particle  of  doubt  left,  her 
,;alk  would  of  necessity  have  resolved  it;  but  he  was  by 

j. hat  time  clear-headed,  and  had  none.  He  advised  that 
i,;;hey  should  let  the  time  go  by  until  the  regular  breakfast- 
lour,  and  should  then  meet  the  Doctor  as  if  nothing  un- 
^jisual  had  occurred.  If  he  appeared  to  be  in  his  customary 
fate  of  mind,  Mr.  Lorry  would  then  cautiously  proceed  to 
eek  direction  and  guidance  from  the  opinion  he  had  been, 
n his  anxiety,  so  anxious  to  obtain. 

Miss  Pross,  submitting  herself  to  his  judgment,  the 
cheme  was  worked  out  with  care.  Having  abundance  of 
line  for  his  usual  methodical  toilette,  Mr.  Lorry  presented 
■iimself  at  the  breakfast-hour  in  his  usual  white  linen,  and 
/ith  his  usual  neat  leg.  The  Doctor  was  summoned  in  the 
j Sual  way,  and  came  to  breakfast. 

^ So  far  as  it  was  possible  to  comprehend  him  without 
verstepping  those  delicate  and  gradual  approaches  which 
Ir.  Lorry  felt  to  be  the  only  safe  advance,  he  at  first  sup- 
osed  that  his  daughter’s  marriage  had  taken  place  yester- 
ay.  An  incidental  allusion,  purposely  thrown  out,  to  the 
^ week,  and  the  day  of  the  month,  set  him  think- 
ig  and  counting,  and  evidently  made  him  uneasy.  In  all 

er  respects,  however,  he  was  so  composedly  himself, 
lat  Mr.  Lorry  determined  to  have  the  aid  he  sought.  And 
lat  aid  was  his  own. 


188 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Therefore,  when  the  breakfast  was  done  and  cleared 
away,  and  he  and  the  Doctor  were  left  together,  Mr.  Lorry 
said,  feelingly : 

My  dear  Manette,  I am  anxious  to  have  your  opinion, 
in  confidence,  on  a very  curious  case  in  which  I am  deeply 
interested;  that  is  to  say,  it  is  very  curious  to  me;  perhaps, 
to  your  better  information  it  may  be  less  so.’^ 

Glancing  at  his  hands,  which  were  discoloured  by  his  late 
work,  the  Doctor  looked  troubled,  and  listened  attentively. 
He  had  already  glanced  at  his  hands  more  than  once. 

Doctor  Manette,’’  said  Mr.  Lorry,  touching  him  affec- 
tionately on  the  arm,  the  case  is  the  case  of  a particu- 
larly dear  friend  of  mine.  Pray  give  your  mind  to  it,  and 
advise  me  well  for  his  sake — ^and  above  all,  for  his  daugh- 
ter’s— his  daughter’s,  my  dear  Manette.” 

‘^If  I understand,”  said  the  Doctor,  in  a subdued  tone, 

some  mental  shock ? ” 

‘‘Yes!” 

“Be  explicit,”  said  the  Doctor.  “ Spare  no  detail.” 

Mr.  Lorry  saw  that  they  understood  one  another,  and 
proceeded. 

“ My  dear  Manette,  it  is  the  case  of  an  old  and  a pro- 
longed shock,  of  great  acuteness  and  severity  to  the  affec- 
tions, the  feelings,  the — the— as  you  express  it — the  mind. 
The  mind.  It  is  the  case  of  a shock  under  which  the 
sufferer  was  borne  down,  one  cannot  say  for  how  long,  be- 
cause I believe  he  cannot  calculate  the  time  himself,  and 
there  are  no  other  means  of  getting  at  it.  It  is  the  case  oj 
a shock  from  which  the  sufferer  recovered,  by  a process 
that  he  cannot  trace  himself — as  I once  heard  him  publiclj 
relate  in  a striking  manner.  It  is  the  case  of  a shock  froir 
which  he  has  recovered,  so  completely,  as  to  be  a highly 
intelligent  man,  capable  of  close  application  of  mind,  anc 
great  exertion  of  body,  and  of  constantly  making  fresh  ad- 
ditions to  his  stock  of  knowledge,  which  was  already  veiy 
large.  But,  unfortunately,  there  has  been,”  he  paused  anc 
took  a deep  breath— “a  slight  relapse.” 

The  Doctor,  in  a low  voice,  asked,  “ Of  how  long  dura- 
tion? ” 

“Nine  days  and  nights.” 

“How  did  it  show  itself?  I infer,”  glancing  at  hii 
hands  again,  “in  the  resumption  of  some  old  pursuit  con 
nected  with  the  shock?  ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


189 


‘‘That  is  the  fact.’’ 

^ “ISTow,  did  you  ever  see  him,”  asked  the  Doctor,  dis- 
inctly  and  collectedly,  though  in  the  same  low  voice,  “en- 
,^aged  in  that  pursuit  originally?  ” 

“Once.” 

“And  when  the  relapse  fell  on  him,  was  he  in  most  re- 
ipects— or  in  all  respects^ — as  he  was  then?  ” 

“I  think  in  all  respects.” 

“ You  spoke  of  his  daughter.  Does  his  daughter  know 
'f  the  relapse?  ” 

“No.  It  has  been  kept  from  her,  and  I hope  will  always 
>e  kept  from  her.  It  is  known  only  to  myself,  and  to  one 
'ther  who  may  be  trusted.” 

The  Doctor  grasped  his  hand,  and  murmured,  “That  was 
ery  kind.  That  was  very  thoughtful?”  Mr.  Lorry 
•rasped  his  hand  in  return,  and  neither  of  the  two  spoke 
or  a little  while. 

“Now,  my  dear  Manette,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  at  length,  in 
is  most  considerate  and  most  affectionate  way,  “lam  a 
lere  man  of  business,  and  unfit  to  cope  with  such  intricate 
nd  difficult  matters.  I do  not  possess  the  kind  of  infor- 
lation  necessary;  I do  not  possess  the  kind  of  intelligence; 
want  guiding.  There  is  no  man  in  this  world  on  whom 
could  so  rely  for  right  guidance,  as  on  you;  Tell  me, 
ow  does  this  relapse  come  about?  Is  there  danger  of 
nother?  Could  a repetition  of  it  be  prevented?  How 
aould  a repetition  of  it  be  treated?  How  does  it  come 
bout  at  all?  What  can  I do  for  my  friend?  No  man 
v^er  can  have  been  more  desirous  in  his  heart  to  serve  a 
*iend,  than  I am  to  serve  mine,  if  I knew  how.  But  I 
on  t know  how  to  originate,  in  such  a case.  If  your  saga- 
ty,  knowledge,  and  experience,  could  put  me  on  the  right 
•ack,  I might  be  able  to  do  so  much;  unenlightened  and 
adirected,  I can  do  so  little.  Pray  discuss  it  with  me; 
ray  enable  me  to  see  it  a little  more  clearly,  and  teach 
e how  to  be  a little  more  useful.” 

Doctor  Manette  sat  meditating  after  these  earnest  words 
ere  spoken,  and  Mr.  Lorry  did  not  press  him. 

^ I think  it  probable,”  said  the  Doctor,  breaking  silence 
ith  an  effort,  “ that  the  relapse  you  have  described,  my 
3ar  friend,  was  not  quite  unforeseen  by  its  subject.” 

Was  it  dreaded  by  him?  ” Mr.  Lorry  ventured  to  ask. 
Very  much.  ’ He  said  it  with  an  involuntary  shudder. 


190 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


You  have  no  idea  how  such  an  apprehension  weighs  on 
the  sufferer’s  mind,  and  how  difficult — how  almost  impos- 
sible— it  is,  for  him  to  force  himself  to  utter  a word  upon 
the  topic  that  oppresses  him.” 

Would  he,”  asked  Mr.  Lorry  ^‘be  sensibly  relieved  if 
he  could  prevail  upon  himself  to  impart  that  secret  brood- 
ing to  any  one  when  it  is  on  him?  ” 

I think  so.  But  it  is,  as  I have  told  you,  next  to  im- 
possible. I even  believe  it — in  some  cases — to  be  quite 
impossible.” 

‘^Now,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  gently  laying  his  hand  on  the 
Doctor’s  arm  again,  after  a short  silence  on  both  sides,  ‘‘to 
what  would  you  refer  this  attack?  ” 

“I  believe,”  returned  Doctor  Manette  “that  there  had 
been  a strong  and  extraordinary  revival  of  the  train  of 
thought  and  remembrance  that  was  the  first  cause  of  the 
malady.  Some  intense  associations  of  a most  distressing 
nature  were  vividly  recalled,  I think.  It  is  probable  that 
there  had  long  been  a dread  lurking  in  his  mind  that  those 
associations  would  be  recalled — say,  under  certain  circum- 
stances— say,  on  a particular  occasion.  He  tried  to  prepare 
himself  in  vain;  perhaps  the  effort  to  prepare  himself 
made  him  less  able  to  bear  it.” 

“ Would  he  remember  what  took  place  in  the  relapse?  ” 
asked  Mr.  Lorry,  with  natural  hesitation. 

The  Doctor  looked  desolately  round  the  room,  shook  his 
head,  and  answered,  in  a low  voice,  “Not  at  all.” 

“Now,  as  to  the  future,”  hinted  Mr.  Lorry. 

“As  to  the  future,”  said  the  Doctor,  recovering  firm- 
ness, “ I should  have  great  hope.  As  it  pleased  Heaven 
in  its  mercy  to  restore  him  so  soon,  I should  have  great 
hope.  He,  yielding  under  the  pressure  of  a complica- 
ted something,  long  dreaded  and  long  vaguely  foreseen 
and  contended  against,  and  recovering  after  the  cloud  had 
burst  and  passed,  I should  hope  that  the  worst  was  over.” 
“Well,  well!  That’s  good  comfort.  I am  thankful!” 
said  Mr.  Lorry, 

“ I am  thankful ! ” repeated  the  Doctor,  bending  his  head 
with  reverence. 

“ There  are  two  other  points,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “ on  which 
I am  anxious  to  be  instructed.  I may  go  on?  ” 

“ You  cannot  do  your  friend  a better  service.”  The  Doc- 
tor gave  him  his  hand. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


IWl 


^ “To  the  first,  then.  He  is  of  a studioirs  habit,  and  un- 
isually  energetic;  he  applies  himself  with  great  ardour  to 
he  acquisition  of  professional  knowledge,  to  the  conduct- 
ng  of  experiments,  to  many  things.  Now,  does  he  do  too 
nuch?  ” 

“ I think  not.  It  may  be  the  character  of  his  mind,  to 
>e  always  in  singular  need  of  occupation.  That  may  be, 
n part,  natural  to  it;  in  part,  the  result  of  affliction. 
_^he  less  it  was  occupied  with  healthy  things,  the  more  it 
rould  be  in  danger  of  turning  in  the  unhealthy  direction, 
le  may  have  observed  himself,  and  made  the  discovery. 

“ You  are  sure  that  he  is  not  under  too  great  a strain?  ” 

“I  think  I am  quite  sure  of  it.” 

, “My  dear  Manette,  if  he  were  overworked  now ” 

“My  dear  Lorry,  I doubt  if  that  could  easily  be.  There 
as  been  a violent  stress  in  one  direction,  and  it  needs  a 
ounterweight/’ 

I Excuse  me,  as  a persistent  man  of  business.  Assuming 
'or  a moment,  that  he  was  overworked;  it  would  show  it- 
9lf  in  some  renewal  of  this  disorder? 
i ''I  do  not  think  so.  I do  not  think,’'  said  Doctor  Ma- 
ette  with  the  firmness  of  self-conviction,  ^^that  anything 
ut  the  one  train  of  association  would  renew  it.  I think 
lat,  henceforth,  nothing  but  some  extraordinary  jarring  of 
lat  chord  could  renew  it.  After  what  has  happened,  and 
■hev  his  recovery,  I find  it  difficult  to  imagine  any  such 
lolent  sounding  of  that  string  again.  I trust,  and  I al- 
lost  believe,  that  the  circumstances  likely  to  renew  it  are 
chausted.” 

He  spoke  with  the  diffidence  of  a man  who  knew  how 
ight  a thing  would  overset  the  delicate  organisation  of 
le  mind,  and  yet  with  the  confidence  of  a man  who  had 
owly  won  his  assurance  out  of  personal  endurance  and 
stiess.  It  was  not  for  his  friend  to  abate  that  confidence, 
e professed  himself  more  relieved  and  encouraged  than 
i really  was,  and  approached  his  second  and  last  point, 
e felt  it  to  be  the  most  difficult  of  all;  but,  remembering 
s old  Sunday  morning  conversation  with  Miss  Pross,  and 
membering  what  he  had  seen  in  the  last  nine  days,  he 
lew  that  he  must  face  it. 

The  occupation  resumed  under  the  influence  of  this 
Lssing  affliction  so  happily  recovered  from,”  said  Mr. 
)rry , clearing  his  throat,  ^^we  will  call — Blacksmith’s 


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A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


work,  Blacksmith’s  work.  We  will  say,  to  put  a case  and 
for  the  sake  of  illustration,  that  he  had  been  used,  in  his 
bad  time,  to  work  at  a little  forge.  We  will  say  that  he 
was  unexpectedly  found  at  his  forge  again.  Is  it  not  a 
pity  that  he  should  keep  it  by  him?  ” 

The  Doctor  shaded  his  forehead  with  his  hand,  and  beat 
his  foot  nervously  on  the  ground. 

''He  has  always  kept  it  by  him,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  with 
an  anxious  look  at  his  friend.  "Now,  would  it  not  be  bet- 
ter that  he  should  let  it  go?  ” 

Still,  the  Doctor,  with  shaded  forehead,  beat  his  foot 
nervously  on  the  ground. 

"You  do  not  find  it  easy  to  advise  me?  ” said  Mr.  Lorry. 
" I quite  understand  it  to  be  a nice  question.  And  yet  I 
think ” And  there  he  shook  his  head,  and  stopped. 

" You  see,”  said  Doctor  Manette,  turning  to  him  after  an 
uneasy  pause,  "it  is  very  hard  to  explain,  consistently,  the 
innermost  workings  of  this  poor  man’s  mind.  ^ He  once 
yearned  so  frightfully  for  that  occupation,  and  it  was  so 
welcome  when  it  came;  no  doubt  it  relieved  his  pain  so 
much,  by  substituting  the  perplexity  of  the  fingers  for  the 
perplexity  of  the  brain,  and  by  substituting,  as  he  became 
more  practised,  the  ingenuity  of  the  hands,  for  the  ingenuity 
of  the  mental  torture;  that  he  has  never  been  able  to  bear 
the  thought  of  putting  it  quite  out  of  his  ^ reach.  Even 
now,  when  I believe  he  is  more  hopeful  of  himself  than  he 
has  ever  been,  and  even  speaks  of  himself  with  a kind  of 
confidence,  the  idea  that  he  might  need  that  old  employ- 
ment, and  not  find  it,  gives  him  a sudden  sense  of  terror, 
like  that  which  one  may  fancy  strikes  to  the  heart  of  a lost 
child.” 

He  looked  like  his  illustration,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
Mr.  Lorry’s  face. 

"But  may  not— mind!  I ask  for  information,  as  a plod- 
ding  man  of  business  who  only  deals  with  such  material 
objects  as  guineas,  shillings,  and  bank-notes — may  not  tH 
retention  of  the  thing  involve  the  retention  of  the  idea?  B 
the  thing  were  gone,  my  dear  Manette,  might  not  the  feai 
go  with  it?  In  short,  is  it  not  a concession  to  the  misgiv- 
ing, to  keep  the  forge?  ” 

There  was  another  silence. 

"You  see,  too,”  said  the  Doctor,  tremulously,  "it  is  suet 
an  old  companion.” 


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193 


‘‘I  would  not  keep  said  Mr.  Lorry,  shaking  his 
ead;  for  he  gained  in  firmness  as  he  saw  the  Doctor  dis- 
uieted.  1 would  recommend  him  to  sacrifice  it.  I only 
i^ant  your  authority.  I am  sure  it  does  no  good.  Come ! 
rive  me  your  authority,  like  a dear  good  man.  For  his 
aughter’s  sake,  my  dear  Manette ! 

Very  strange  to  see  what  a struggle  there  was  within 
im ! 

^^In  her  name,  then,  let  it  be  done;  I sanction  it.  But, 
would  not  take  it  away  while  he  was  present.  Let  it  be 
iinoyed  when  he  is  not  there;  let  him  miss  his  old  com- 
pnion  after  an  absence.’^ 

■ Mr,  Lorry  readily  engaged  for  that,  and  the  conference 
as  ended.  They  passed  the  day  in  the  country,  and  the 
'Octor  was  quite  restored.  On  the  three  following  days 
e remained  perfectly  well,  and  on  the  fourteenth  day  he 
l ent  away  to  join  Lucie  and  her  husband.  The  precau- 
on  that  had  been  taken  to  account  for  his  silence,  Mr. 
orry  had  previously  explained  to  him,  and  he  had  writ- 
ten to  Lucie  in  accordance  with  it,  and  she  had  no  suspi- 
‘ons. 

On  the  night  of  the  day  on  which  he  left  the  house,  Mr. 
orry  went  into  his  room  with  a chopper,  saw,  chisel,  and 
ammer,  attended  by  Miss  Pross  carrying  a light.  There, 
ith  closed  doors,  and  in  a mysterious  and  guilty  manner, 
[r.  Lorry  hacked  the  shoemakers’  bench  to  pieces,  while 
dss  Pross  held  the  candle  as  if  she  were  assisting  at  a 
urder — for  which,  indeed,  in  her  grimness,  she  was  no 
risuitable  figure.  The  burning  of  the  body  (previously  re- 
iced  to  pieces  convenient  for  the  purpose)  was  com- 
enced  without  delay  in  the  kitchen  fire;  and  the  tools, 
loes,  and  leather,  were  buried  in  the  garden.  So  wicked 
b destruction  and  secrecy  appear  to  honest  minds,  that 
r.  Lorry  and  Miss  Pross,  while  engaged  in  the  commis- 
011  of  their  deed  and  in  the  removal  of  its  traces,  almost 
It,  and  almost  looked,  like  accomplices  in  a horrible 


194 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A PLEA.  i 

When  the  newly-married  pair  came  home,  the  first  per- 
son who  appeared,  to  offer  his  congratulations,  was  Sydney 
Carton.  They  had  not  been  at  home  many  hours,  when  he 
presented  himself.  He  was  not  improved  in  habitS;  or  io 
looks,  or  in  manner;  but  there  was  a certain  rugged  air  ol 
fidelity  about  him,  which  was  new  to  the  observation  oi 
Charles  Darnay. 

He  watched  his  opportunity  of  taking  Darnay  aside  intc 
a window,  and  of  speaking  to  him  when  no  one  overheard 
^^Mr.  Darnay,’’  said  Carton,  wish  we  might  bt 
friends.”  i 

“We  are  already  friends,  I hope.” 

“ You  are  good  enough  to  say  so,  as  a fashion  of  speech; 
but,  I don’t  mean  any  fashion  of  speech.  Indeed,  when  ] 
say  I wish  we  might  be  friends,  I scarcely  mean  quite  that, 
either.” 

Charles  Darnay — as  was  natural— asked  him,  in  all  good  i 
humour  and  good-fellowship,  what  he  did  mean? 

“Upon  my  life,”  said  Carton,  smiling,  “I  find  tha! 
easier  to  comprehend  in  my  own  mind,  than  to  convey  t«| 
yours.  However,  let  me  try.  You  remember  a certaiij 
famous  occasion  when  I was  more  drunk  than — thaii 
usual?  ” i 

“ I remember  a certain  famous  occasion  when  you  forcecl 
me  to  confess  that  you  had  been  drinking.” 

“I  remember  it  too.  The  curse  of  those  occasions  i 
heavy  upon  me,  for  I always  remember  them.  I hope  i 
may  be  taken  into  account  one  day,  when  all  days  are  at  ai 
end  for  me ! Don’t  be  alarmed;  I am  not  going  to  preach.' 

“ I am  not  at  all  alarmed.  Earnestness  in  you,  is  any 
thing  but  alarming  to  me.” 

“Ah!  ” said  Carton,  with  a careless  wave  of  his  hand,  a, 
if  he  waved  that  away.  “ On  the  drunken  occasion  in  ques 
tion  (one  of  a large  number,  as  you  know),  I was  insuffei 
able  about  liking  you,  and  not  liking  you.  I wish  yo 
would  forget  it.”  i 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


195 


forgot  it  long  ago.” 

Fashion  of  speech  again!  But,  Mr.  Darnay,  oblivion 
s not  so  easy  to  me,  as  you  represent  it  to  be  to  you.  I 
lave  by  no  means  forgotten  it,  and  a light  answer  does  not 
lelp  me  to  forget  it.” 

“If  it  was  a light  answer,”  returned  Darnay,  “I  beg 
^our  forgiveness  for  it.  I had  no  other  object  than  to  turn 
- slight  thing,  which,  to  my  surprise,  seems  to  trouble  you 

00  much,  aside.  I declare  to  you,  on  the  faith  of  a gentle- 
aan,  that  I have  long  dismissed  it  from  my  mind.  Good 
leaven,  what  was  there  to  dismiss ! Have  I had  nothing 
lore  important  to  remember,  in  the  great  service  you  ren- 
ered  me  that  day?  ” 

“As  to  the  great  service,”  said  Carton,  “I  am  bound  to 
vow  to  you,  when  you  speak  of  it  in  that  way,  that  it  was 
lere  professional  claptrap,  I don’t  know  that  I cared  what 
ecame  of  you,  when  I rendered  it. — Mind!  I say  when  I 
jsndered  it;  I am  speaking  of  the  past.” 

“You  make  light  of  the  obligation,”  returned  Darnay, 
but  I will  not  quarrel  with  your  light  answer.” 

1 “Genuine  truth,  Mr.  Darnay,  trust  me!  I have  gone 
side  from  my  purpose;  I was  speaking  about  o;.r  being 
ciends.  Now,  you  know  me;  you  know  I am  incapable 
f all  the  higher  and  better  flights  of  men.  If  you  doubt 
i,  ask  Stryver,  and  he’ll  tell  you  so.” 

II I prefer  to  form  my  own  opinion,  without  the  aid  of  his.” 
“Well!  At  any  rate  you  know  me  as  a dissolute  dog, 
ho  has  never  done  any  good,  and  never  will.” 

“I  don’t  know  that  you  ^ never  will.’  ” 

“ But  I do,  and  you  must  take  my  word  for  it.  Well ! 

F you  could  endure  to  have  such  a worthless  fellow,  and  a 
dlow  of  such  indifferent  reputation,  coming  and  going  at 
id  times,  I should  ask  that  I might  be  permitted  to  come 
id  go  as  a privileged  person  here;  that  I might  be  re- 
irded  as  an  useless  (and  I would  add,  if  it  were  not  for 
le  resemblance  I detected  between  you  and  me,  an  unor- 
imental)  piece  of  furniture,  tolerated  for  its  old  service, 
id  taken  no  notice  of.  I doubt  if  I should  abuse  the  per- 
ission.^  It  is  a hundred  to  one  if  I should  avail  myself  of 
four  times  in  a year.  It  would  satisfy  me,  I dare  sav,  to 
low  that  I had  it.” 

“ Will  you  try?  ” 

''That  is  another  way  of  saying  that  I am  placed  on  the 


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A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


footing  I have  indicated.  I thank  you,  Darnay.  I may 
use  that  freedom  with  your  name? 

I think  so,  Carton,  by  this  time.’’ 

They  shook  hands  upon  it,  and  Sydney  turned  away. 
Within  a minute  afterwards,  he  was,  to  all  outward  ap- 
pearance, as  unsubstantial  as  ever. 

When  he  was  gone,  and  in  the  course  of  an  evening 
passed  with  Miss  Pross,  the  Doctor,  and  Mr.  Lorry, 
Charles  Darnay  made  some  mention  of  this  conversation  in 
general  terms,  and  spoke  of  Sydney  Carton  as  a problem 
of  carelessness  and  recklessness.  He  spoke  of  him,  in 
short,  not  bitterly  or  meaning  to  bear  hard  upon  him,  but 
as  anybody  might  who  saw  him  as  he  showed  himself. 

He  had  no  idea  that  this  could  dwell  in  the  thoughts  of 
his  fair  young  wife;  but,  when  he  afterwards  joined  her  in 
their  own  rooms,  he  found  her  waiting  for  him  with  the 
old  pretty  lifting  of  the  forehead  strongly  marked. 

We  are  thoughtful  to-night!  ” said  Darnay,  drawing  his 
arm  about  her. 

^^Yes,  dearest  Charles,”  with  her  hands  on  his  breast, 
and  tlie  inquiring  and  attentive  expression  fixed  upon  him; 
“we  aie  rather  thoughtful  to-night,  for  we  have  something 
our  our  mind  to-night.’* 

“ What  is  it,  my  Lucie?  ” 

“ Will  you  promise  not  to  press  one  question  on  me,  if  I 
beg  you  not  to  ask  it?  ” 

“ Will  I promise?  What  will  I not  promise  to  my 
Love?  ” 

What,  indeed,  with  his  hand  putting  aside  the  golden 
hair  from  the  cheek,  and  his  other  hand  against  the  heart 
that  beat  for  him  1 

“ I think,  Charles,  poor  Mr.  Carton  deserves  more  con- 
sideration and  respect  than  you  expressed  for  him  to-night.” 

“ Indeed,  my  own?  Why  so?  ” 

“ That  is  what  you  are  not  to  ask  me.  But  I think — I 
know — he  does.” 

“ If  you  know  it,  it  is  enough.  What  would  you  have 
me  do,  my  Life?  ” 

“ I would  ask  you,  dearest,  to  be  very  generous  with  him 
always,  and  very  lenient  on  his  faults  when  he  is  not  by. 
I would  ask  you  to  believe  that  he  has  a heart  he  very, 
very  seldom  reveals,  and  that  there  are  deep  wounds  in  it. 
My  dear,  I have  seen  it  bleeding.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


197 


“It  is  a painful  reflection  to  me,”  said  Cliarles  Darnay, 
:juite  astounded,  “ that  I should  have  done  him  any  wrong. 
1 never  thought  this  of  him.” 

“My  liusband,  it  is  so.  I fear  he  is  not  to  be  reclaimed; 
there  is  scarcely  a hope  that  anything  in  his  character  or 
fortunes  is  reparable  now.  But,  I am  sure  that  he  is  capa- 
ble of  good  things,  gentle  things,  even  magnanimous 
things 

She  looked  so  beautiful  in  the  purity  of  her  faith  in  this 
ost  man,  that  her  husband  could  have  looked  at  her  as  she 
vvas  for  hours. 

''  And,  0 my  dearest  Love ! she  urged,  clinging  nearer 
,:o  him,  laying  her  head  upon  his  breast,  and  raising  her 
i3yes  to  his,  remember  how  strong  we  are  in  our  happi- 
less,  and  how  weak  he  is  in  his  misery ! 

The  supplication  touched  him  home.  will  always  re- 
nember  it,  dear  Heart!  I will  remember  it  as  long  as  I 
ive.’’ 

He  bent  over  the  golden  head,  and  put  the  rosy  lips  to 
,iis,  and  folded  her  in  his  arms.  If  one  forlorn  wanderer 
jihen  pacing  the  dark  streets,  could  have  heard  her  inno- 
cent disclosure,  and  could  have  seen  the  drops  of  pity 
cissed  away  by  her  husband  from  the  soft  blue  eyes  so  lov- 
ng  of  that  husband,  he  might  have  cried  to  the  night— 
Liid  the  words  would  not  have  parted  from  his  lips  for  the 
irst  time — 

God  bless  her  for  her  sweet  compassion ! 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

ECHOING  FOOTSTEPS. 

A WONDERFUL  comcr  for  echoes,  it  has  been  remarked, 
hat  corner  where  the  Doctor  lived.  Ever  busily  winding 
he  golden  thread  which  bound  her  husband,  and  her 
ather,  and  herself,  and  her  old  directress  and  companion, 
a a life  of  quiet  bliss,  Lucie  sat  in  the  still  house  in  the 
ranquilly  resounding  corner,  listening  to  the  echoing  foot- 
teps  of  years. 

, At  first,  there  were  times,  though  she  was  a perfectly 


198 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


happy  young  wife,  when  her  work  would  slowly  fall  from 
her  hands,  and  her  eyes  would  be  dimmed.  For,  there  was 
something  coming  in  the  echoes,  something  light,  afar  off, 
and  scarcely  audible  yet,  that  stirred  her  heart  too  much. 
Fluttering  hopes  and  doubts— hopes,  of  a love  as  yet  un- 
known to  her : doubts,  of  her  remaining  upon  earth,  to  en- 
joy that  new  delight— divided  her  breast.  Among  the , 
echoes  then,  there  would  arise  the  sound  of  footsteps  at 
her  own  early  grave;  and  thoughts  of  the  husband  whoj 
would  be  left  so  desolate,  and  who  would  mourn  for  her  so : 
much,  swelled  to  her  eyes,  and  broke  like  waves.  j 

That  time  passed,  and  her  little  Lucie  lay  on  her  bosom,  j 
Then,  among  the  advancing  echoes,  there  was  the  tread  ofj 
her  tiny  feet  and  the  somid  of  her  prattling  words.  Letj 
greater  echoes  resound  as  they  would,  the  young  mother  at| 
the  cradle  side  could  always  hear  those  coming.  They 
came,  and  the  shady  house  was  sunny  with  a child’s  laugh, 
and  the  Divine  friend  of  children,  to  v born  in  her  trouble 
she  had  confided  hers,  seemed  to  take  her  child  in  his  arms, 
as  He  took  the  child  of  old,  and  made  it  a sacred  joy  to 
her. 

Ever  busily  winding  the  golden  thread  that  bound  them 
all  together,  weaving  the  service  of  her  happy  influence 
through  the  tissue  of  all  their  lives,  and  making  it  predom- 
inate nowhere,  Lucie  heard  in  the  echoes  of  years  none  but 
friendly  and  soothing  sounds.  Her  husband’s  step  was 
strong  and  prosperous  among  them;  her  father’s  firm  :md 
equal.  Lo,  Miss  Pross,  in  harness  of  string,  awakening 
the  echoes,  as  an  unruly  charger,  whip-corrected,  snorting 
and  pawing  the  earth  under  the  plane-tree  in  the  garden! 

Even  when  there  were  sounds  of  sorrow  among  the  rest] 
they  were  not  harsh  nor  cruel.  Even  when  golden  hair 
like  her  own,  lay  in  a halo  on  a pillow  round  the  worn  fact 
of  a little  boy,  and  he  said,  with  a radiant  smile,  “ Dea: 
papa  and  mamma,  I am  very  sorry  to  leave  you  both,  an( 
to  leave  my  pretty  sister;  but  I am  called,  and  I must  go!  ’'jl 
those  were  not  tears  all  of  agony  that  wetted  his  young 
mother’s  cheek,  as  the  spirit  departed  from  her  embraoi 
that  had  been  entrusted  to  it.  Suffer  them  and  forbid  then 
not.  They  see  my  Father’s  face.  0 Father,  blessec 
words! 

Thus,  the  rustling  of  an  Angel’s  wings  got  blended  wife 
the  other  echoes,  and  they  were  not  wholly  of  earth,  bu 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


199 


lad  in  them  that  breath  of  Heaven.  Sighs  of  the  winds 
hat  blew  ove,r . a little  garden-tomb  were  mingled  with 
hem  also,  and  both  were  audible  to  Lucie,  in  a hushed 
aurmur  like  the  breathing  of  a summer  sea  asleep  upon 

sandy  shore  as  the  little  Lucie,  comically  studious  at 
he  task  of  the  morning,  or  dressing  a doll  at  her  mother’s 
ootstool,  chattered  in  the  tongues  of  the  Two  Cities  that 
/ere  blended  in  her  life. 

^ The  echoes  rarely  answered  to  the  actual  tread  of  Sydney 
.larton.  Some  half-do2;en  times  a year,  at  most,  he  claimed 
IS  privilege  of  coming  in  uninvited,  and  would  sit  among 
bem  through  the  evening,  as  he  had  once  done  often.  He 
«ver  came  there  heated  with  wine.  And  one  other  thing 
agardmg  him  was  whispered  in  the  echoes,  which  has  been 
whispered  by  all  true  echoes  for  ages  and  ages. 

No  man  ever  really  loved  a woman,  lost  her,  and  knew 
er  with  a blameless  though  an  unchangori  mind,  when  she 
i^as  a wife  and  a mother,  but  her  children  had  a strange 
'^mpathy  with  him — an  instinctive  delicacy  of  pity  for 
im.  What  fine  hidden  sensibilities  are  touchea  in  such  a 
jrse,  no  echoes  tell;  but  it  is  so,  and  it  was  so  hei*e.  Car- 
m was  the  first  stranger  to  whom  little  Lucie  held  ont  her 
hubby  arms,  and  he  kept  his  place  with  her  as  she  grew, 
'he  little  boy  had  spoken  of  him,  almost  at  thv.^iast! 
Poor  Carton ! Kiss  him  for  me ! 

Mr.  Stryver  shouldered  his  way  through  the  law,  liVe 
)me  great  engine  forcing  itself  through  turbid  water,  and 
ragged  his  useful  friend  in  his  wake,  like  a boat  towed 
>tern.  As  the  boat  so  favoured  is  usually  in  a rough 
light,  and  mostly  under  water,  so,  Sydney  had  a swamped 
fe  of  it.  But,  easy  and  strong  custom,  unhappily  so  much 
isier  and  stronger  in  him  than  any  stimulating  sense  of 
3sert  or  disgrace,  made  it  the  life  he  was  to  lead;  and  he 
b more  thought  of  emerging  from  his  state  of  lion’s  jackal, 
lan  any  real  jackal  may  be  supposed  to  think  of  rising  to 
3 a lion.  Stryver  was  rich;  had  married  a florid  widow 
ith  property  and  three  boys,  who  had  nothing  particu- 
rly  shining  about  them  but  the  straight  hair  of  their 
impling  heads. 

These  three  young  gentlemen,  Mr.  Stryver,  exuding  pat- 
>nage  of  the  most  offensive  quality  from  every  pore,  had 
alked  before  liim  like  three  sheep  to  the  quiet  corner  in 
)ho,  and  had  offered  as  pupils  to  Lucie’s  husband:  deli- 


200 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


cately  saying  “ Halloa ! here  are  three  lumps  of  bread-aim- 
cheese  towards  your  matrimonial  picnic,  Oamay!”  The 
polite  rejection  of  the  three  lumps  of  bread-aiid-cheese  had 
quite  bloated  Mr.  Stryver  with  indignation,  which  he  after- 
wards turned  to  account  in  the  training  of  the  young  gen- 
tlemen, by  directing  them  to  beware  of  the  pride  of  Beg- 
gars, like  that  tutor-fellow.  He  was  also  in  the  habit  of 
declaiming  to  Mrs.  Stryver,  over  his  full-bodied  wine,  on 
the  arts  Mrs.  Darnay  had  once  put  in  practice  to  “catch” 
him,  and  on  the  diamond-cut-diamond  arts  in  himself, 
madam,  which  had  rendered  him  “not  to  be  caught.” 
Some  of  his  King’s  Bench  familiars,  who  were  occasionally 
parties  to  the  full-bodied  wino  and  the  lie,  excused  him  for 
the  latter  by  saying  that  he  had  told  it  so  often,  that  he 
believed  it  himself— which  is  surely  such  an  incorrigible 
aggravation  of  an  oi-iginally  bad  offence,  as  to  justify  any 
such  offender’s  being  carried  off  to  some  suitably  retired 
spot,  and  there  hanged  out  of  the  way. 

These  we^®  among  the  echoes  to  which  Lucie,  sometimes 
pensive,  pometimes  amused  and  laughing,  listened  in  the 
echoing '^01‘ner,  until  her  little  daughter  was  six  years  old. 
How  ne^i’  to  her  heart  the  echoes  of  her  child’s  tread  came,, 
and  these  of  her  own  dear  father’s,  always  active  and  self- 
possessed,  and  those  of  her  dear  husband’s,  need  not  be 
told,  ^or,  how  the  lightest  echo  of  their  united  home, 
(3^irected  by  herself  with  such  a wise  and  elegant  thrift  that 
it  was  more  abundant  than  any  waste,  was  music  to  her. 
Nor,  how  there  were  echoes  all  about  her,  sweet  in  her 
ears,  of  the  many  times  her  father  had  told  her  that  hei 
found  her  more  devoted  to  him  married  (if  that  could  be) 
than  single,  and  of  the  many  times  her  husband  had  said 
to  her  that  no  cares  and  duties  seemed  to  divide  her  lovd 
for  him  or  her  help  to  him,  and  asked  her  What  is  the 
magic  secret,  my  darling,  of  your  being  everything  to  all 
of  us,  as  if  there  were  only  one  of  us,  yet  never  seeming 
to  be  hurried,  or  to  have  too  much  to  do?  ” 

But,  there  were  other  echoes,  from  a distance,  that  rum-| 
bled  menacingly  in  the  corner  all  through  this  space  ol 
time.  And  it  was  now,  about  little  Lucie’s  sixth  birthday | 
that  they  began  to  have  an  awful  sound,  as  of  a greai 
storm  in  France  with  a dreadful  sea  rising.  J 

On  a night  in  mid- July,  one  thousand  seven  ^hundred 
and  eighty-nine,  Mr.  Lorry  came  in  late,  from  Tellson’sj 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


201 


Hid  sat  himself  down  by  Lucie  and  her  husband  in  the  dark 
vindow.  It  was  a hot,  wild  night,  and  they  were  all  three 
eminded  of  the  old  Sunday  night  when  they  had  looked 
-t  the  lightning  from  the  same  place. 

, ^ I began  to  think,  said  JMr.  Lorry,  pushing  his  brown 
rig  back,  that  I should  have  to  pass  the  night  at  Tell- 
oiFs.  We  have  been  so  full  of  business  all  day,  that  we 
Lave  not  known  what  to  do  first,  or  which  way  to  turn. 
:here  is  such  an  uneasiness  in  Paris,  that  we  have  actually 
run  of  confidence  upon  us ! Our  customers  over  there, 
eem  not  to  be  able  to  confide  their  property  to  us  fast 
nough.  There  is  positively  a mania  among  some  of  them 
pr  sending  it  to  England. 
i That  has  a bad  look,’^  said  Darnay. 

I ^'A  bad  look,  you  say,  my  dear  Darnay?  Yes,  but  we 
on  t know  what  reason  there  is  in  it.  People  are  so  un- 
■3asonable ! Some  of  us  at  Tellson^s  are  getting  old,  and 
1 e really  can^t  be  troubled  out  of  the  ordinary  course  with- 
‘at  due  occasion. 

Still,  said  Darnay,  ^^you  know  how  gloomy  and  threat- 
iing  the  sky  is.’^ 

I know  that,  to  be  sure,’^  assented  Mr.  Lorry,  trying  to 
ersuade  himself  that  his  sweet  temper  was  soured,  and 
lat  he  grumbled,  ^^but  I am  determined  to  be  peevish 
:ter  my  long  day’s  botheration.  Where  is  Manette?  ” 

: Here  he  is,”  said  the  Doctor,  entering  the  dark  room 

the  moment. 

I am  quite  glad  you  are  at  home;  for  these  hurries  and 
•rebodmgs  by  which  I have  been  surrounded  all  day  long, 
ave  made  me  nervous  without  reason.  You  are  not  going 
it,  I hope?”  ° 

' I am  going  to  play  backgammon  with  you,  if  you 

^ie,”  said  the  Doctor. 

I don  t think  I do  like,  if  I may  speak  my  mind.  I 
fQ  not  fit  to  be  pitted  against  you  to-night.  Is  the  tea- 
•ard  still  there,  Lucie?  I can’t  see.” 

“Of  course,  it  has  been  kept  for  you.” 

“y  <lear.  The  precious  child  is  safe  in 

'“And  sleeping  soundly.” 

That  s right;  all  safe  and  well ! I don’t  know  why 
■ything  should  be  otherwise  than  safe  and  well  here, 
ank  God;  but  I have  been  so  put  out  all  day,  and  I am 


202 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


not  as  young  as  I was!  My  tea,  nay  dear!  Thank  ye. 
Now,  come  and  take  your  place  in  the  circle,  and  let  us  sit 
quiet,  and  hear  the  echoes  about  which  you  have  your 
theory.” 

“Not  a theory;  it  was  a fancy.” 

“A  fancy,  then,  my  wise  pet,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  patting 
her  hand.  “They  are  very  numerous  and  very  loud, 
though,  are  they  not?  Only  hear  them ! ” 

Headlong,  mad,  and  dangerous  footsteps  to  force  their 
way  into  anybody’s  life,  footsteps  not  easily  made  clean 
again  if  once  stained  red,  the  footsteps  raging  in  Saint  An- 
toine afar  off,  as  the  little  circle  sat  in  the  dark  London 
window. 

Saint  Antoine  had  been,  that  morning,  a vast  dusky  mass 
of  scarecrows  heaving  to  and  fro,  with  frequent  gleams  of 
light  above  the  billowy  heads,  where  steel  blades  and  bay- 
onets shone  in  the  sun.  A tremendous  roar  arose  from  the 
throat  of  Saint  Antoine,  and  a forest  of  naked  arms  strug- 
gled in  the  air  like  shrivelled  branches  of  trees  in  a winter 
wind : all  the  fingers  convulsively  clutching  at  every  weapon 
or  semblance  of  a weapon  that  was  thrown  up  from  the 
depths  below,  no  matter  how  far  off. 

Who  gave  them  out,  whence  they  last  came,  where  they 
began,  through  what  agency  they  crookedly  quivered  and 
jerked,  scores  at  a time,  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  like 
a kind  of  lightning,  no  eye  in  the  throng  could  have  told: 
but,  muskets  were  being  distributed — so  were  cartridges 
powder,  and  ball,  bars  of  iron  and  wood,  knives,  axes, 
pikes,  every  weapon  that  distracted  ingenuity  could  disi 
cover  or  devise.  People  who  could  lay  hold  of  nothinj 
else,  set  themselves  with  bleeding  hands  to  force  stonei 
and  bricks  out  of  their  places  in  walls.  Every  pulse  am 
heart  in  Saint  Antoine  was  on  high-fever  strain  and  a 
high-fever  heat.  Every  living  creature  there  held  life  ai 
of  no  account,  and  was  demented  with  a passionate  readi 
ness  to  sacrifice  it. 

As  a whirlpool  of  boiling  waters  has  a centre  point,  sc 
all  this  raging  circled  round  Hefarge’s  wine-shop,  and  ever 
human  drop  in  the  caldron  had  a tendency  to  be  suck® 
towards  the  vortex  where  Defarge  himself,  already  bt 
grimed  with  gunpowder  and  sweat,  issued  orders,  issue 
arms,  thrust  this  man  back,  dragged  this  man  forward,  di 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


203 


.rrned  one  to  arm  another,  laboured  and  strove  in  the 
hickest  of  the  uproar. 

“Keep  near  to  me,  Jacques  Three,”  cried  Defarge;  “and 

0 you,  Jacques  One  and  Two,  separate  and  put  yourselves 
t the  head  of  as  many  of  these  patriots  as  you  can. 
Vhere  is  my  wife?  ” 

Eh,  well!  Here  you  see  me ! ” said  madame,  composed 
s ever,  but  not  knitting  to-day.  Madame’s  resolute  right 
and  was  occupied  with  an  axe,  in  place  of  the  usual  softer 
nplements,  and  in  her  girdle  were  a pistol  and  a cruel 
nife. 

“ Where  do  you  go,  my  wife?  ” 

“ I go,”  said  madame,  “ with  you  at  present.  You  shall 
jie  me  at  the  head  of  women,  by-aiid-bye.’’ 

Gome,  then ! ” cried  Defarge,  in  a resounding  voice. 
Patriots  and  friends,  we  are  ready ! The  Bastille ! ” 

With  a roar  that  sounded  as  if  all  the  breath  in  France 
lid  been  shaped  into  the  detested  word,  the  living  sea  rose, 
ave  on  wave,  depth  on  depth,  and  overflowed  the  city  to*^ 
|iat  point.  Alarm-bells  ringing,  drums  beating,  the  sea 
j^ng  and  thundering  on  its  new  beach,  the  attack  begun. 
Deep  ditches,  double  drawbridge,  massive  stone  walls, 
ght  great  towers,  cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke, 
nrough  the  fire  and  through  tlie  smoke— in  the  fire  and 
t le  smoke,  for  the  sea  cast  him  up  against  a cannon, 

(i  on  the  instant  he  became  a cannonier — Defarge  of  the 
lie-shop  worked  like  a manful  soldier.  Two  fierce  hours. 
Deep  ditch,  single  drawbridge,  massive  stone  walls,  eight 
eat  towers,  cannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke.  One  draw- 
idge  down ! “ Work,  comrades  all,  work ! Work,  Jacques 
le,  Jacques  Two,  Jacques  One  Thousand,  Jacques  Two 
lousand  Jacques  Five-and-Twenty  Thousand;  in  the 
Angles  or  the  Devils — which  you  prefer — 

T 1 I , Defarge  of  the  wine-shop,  still  at  his  gun, 
lien  had  long  grown  hot. 

'“To  me,  women!”  cried  madame  his  wife.  “What! 

when  the  place  is  taken!  ” 
id  to  her  with  a slirill  thirsty  cry,  trooping  women  vari- 
y armed,  but  all  armed  alike  in  hunger  and  revenge, 
bannon,  muskets,  fire  and  smoke;  but,  still  the  deep 
en,  the  single  drawbridge,  the  massive  stone  walls,  and 

1 eight  great  towers.  Slight  displacements  of  the  ragiim 
made  by  the  falling  wounded.  Flashing  weapons. 


204 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


blazing,  torches  smoking  waggon-loads  of  wet  straw,  hard 
work  at  neighbouring  barricades  in  all  directions,  shrieks, 
volleys,  execrations,  bravery  without  stint,  boom  smash 
and  rattle,  and  the  furious  sounding  of  the  living  sea;  but, 
still  the  deep  ditch,  and  the  single  drawbridge,  and  the 
massive  stone  walls,  and  the  eight  great  towers,  and  still 
Defarge  of  the  wine- shop  at  his  gun,  grown  doubly  hot  by 
the  service  of  Four  fierce  hours. 

A white  flag  from  within  the  fortress,  and  a parley — 
this  dimly  perceptible  through  the  raging  storm,  nothing 
audible  in  it — suddenly  the  sea  rose  immeasurably  wider 
and  higher,  and  swept  Defarge  of  the  wine-shop  over  the 
lowered  drawbridge,  past  the  massive  stone  outer  walls,  in 
among  the  eight  great  towers  surrendered ! 

So  resistless  was  the  force  of  the  ocean  bearing  him  on, 
that  even  to  draw  his  breath  or  turn  his  head  was  as  im- 
practicable as  if  he  had  been  struggling  in  the  surf  at  the 
South  Sea,  until  he  was  landed  in  the  outer  courtyard  of 
tne  Bastille.  There,  against  an  angle  of  a wall,  he  made 
a struggle  to  look  about  him.  Jacques  Three  was  nearly 
at  his  side;  Madame  Defarge,  still  heading  some  of  her 
women,  was  visible  in  the  inner  distance,  and  her  knife 
was  in  her  hand.  Everywhere  was  tumult,  exultation, 
deafening  and  maniacal  bewilderment,  astounding  noise,; 
yet  furious  dumb-show. 

‘‘  The  Prisoners ! 

The  Records ! ” 

The  secret  cells ! ’’  , 

The  instruments  of  torture ! 

The  Prisoners ! 

Of  all  these  cries,  and  ten  thousand  incoherences,  The 
Prisoners ! was  the  cry  most  taken  up  by  the  sea  that 
rushed  in,  as  if  there  were  an  eternity  of  people,  as  well  a^ 
of  time  and  space.  When  the  foremost  billows  rolled  past„' 
bearing  the  prison  officers  with  them,  and  threatening  them 
all  with  instant  death  if  any  secret  nook  remained  undis- 
closed, Defarge  laid  his  strong  hand  on  the  breast  of  one  ol 
these  men — a man  with  a grey  head,  who  had  a lighted 
torch  in  his  hand — separated  him  from  the  rest,  and  go| 
him  between  himself  and  the  wall. 

‘‘  Show  me  the  North  Tower ! said  Defarge.  Quick! 
will  faithfully,”  replied  the  man,  ^‘if  you  will  come 
with  me.  But  there  is  no  one  there.” 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES 


205 


What  is  the  meaning  of  One  Hundred  and  Five^  North 
Tower?  asked  Defarge.  Quick ! 

‘‘The  meaning,  monsieur?’^ 

“Does  it  mean  a captive,  or  a place  of  captivity?  Or  do 
you  mean  that  I shall  strike  you  dead?  ” 

“Kill  him!”  croaked  Jacques  Three,  who  had  come 
dose  up. 

“Monsieur,  it  is  a cell.” 

“ Show  it  me ! ” 

“Pass  this  way,  then.” 

Jacques  Three,  with  his  usual  craving  on  him,  and  evi- 
^lently  disappointed  by  the  dialogue  taking  a turn  that  did 
^lot  seem  to  promise  bloodshed,  held  by  Defarge’s  arm  as 
le  held  by  the  turnkey’s.  Their  three  heads  had  been 
dose  together  during  this  brief  discourse,  and  it  had  been 
IS  much  as  they  could  do  to  hear  one  another,  even  then ; 
n tremendous  was  the  noise  of  the  living  ocean,  in  its  ir- 
uption  into  the  Fortress,  and  its  inundation  of  the  courts 
ind  passages  and  staircases.  All  around  outside,  too,  it 
|)eat  the  walls  with  a deep,  hoarse  roar,  from  which,  occa- 
lionally,  some  partial  shouts  of  tumult  broke  and  leaped 
nto  the  air  like  spray. 

Througli  gloomy  vaults  where  the  light  of  day  had  never 
hone,  past  hideous  doors  of  dark  dens  and  cages,  down 
avernous  flights  of  steps,  and  again  up  steep  ruggeo* 
.scents  of  stone  and  brick,  more  like  dry  waterfalls  than 
taircases,  Defarge,  the  turnkey,  and  Jacques  Three,  linked 
Land  and  arm,  went  with  all  the  speed  they  could  make, 
lere  and  there,  especially  at  first,  the  inundation  started 
n them  and  swept  by;  but  when  they  had  done  descend- 
Qg,  and  were  winding  and  climbing  up  a tower,  they  were 
lone.  Hemmed  in  here  by  the  massive  thickness  of  walls 
nd  arches,  the  storm  within  the  fortress  and  without  was 
nly  audible  to  them  in  a dull,  subdued  way,  as  if  the  noise 
ut  of  whicli  they  had  come  had  almost  destroyed  their 
ense  of  hearing. 

The  turnkey  stopped  at  a low  door,  put  a key  in  a clash- 
ig  lock,  swung  the  door  slowly  open,  and  said,  as  they  all 
ent  their  heads  and  passed  in  : 

“One  hundred  and  five.  North  Tower!” 

There  was  a small-heavily-grated,  unglazed  window  high 
1 the  wall,  with  a stone  screen  before  it,  so  that  the  sky 
ould  be  only  seen  by  stooping  low  and  looking  up.  There 


206 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


was  a small  chimney,  heavily  barred  across,  a few  feet 
within.  There  was  a heap  of  old  feathery  wood-ashes  on 
the  hearth.  There  was  a stool,  and  table,  and  a straw  bed. 
There  were  the  four  blackened  walls,  and  a rusted  iron  ring 
in  one  of  them. 

Pass  that  torch  slowly  along  these  walls,  that  I may 
see  them,’’  said  Defarge  to  the  turnkey. 

The  man  obeyed,  and  Defarge  followed  the  light  closely 
with  his  eyes. 

Stop ! — Look  here,  Jacques ! ” 

A.  M. ! ” croaked  Jacques  Three,  as  he  read  greedily  . 

Alexandre  Manette,”  said  Defarge  in  his  ear,  follow-| 
ing  the  letters  with  his  swart  forefinger,  deeply  engrained 
with  gunpowder.  And  here  he  wrote  ‘ a poor  physician.’ 
And  it  was  he,  without  doubt,  who  scratched  a calendar  on 
this  stone.  What  is  that  in  your  hand?  A crowbar?  Give 
it  me ! ” 

He  had  still  the  linstock  of  his  gun  in  his  own  hand. 
He  made  a sudden  exchange  of  the  two  instruments,  and 
turning  on  the  worm-eaten  stool  and  table,  beat  them  to 
pieces  in  a few  blows. 

‘^Hold  the  light  higher!”  he  said,  wrathfully,  to  the 
turnkey.  ‘^Look  among  those  fragments  with  care, 
Jacques.  And  see!  Here  is  my  knife,”  throwing  it  to 
him;  “rip  open  that  bed,  and  search  the  straw.  Hold  tlie 
light  higher,  you ! ” 

With  a menacing  look  at  the  turnkey  he  crawled  upoi 
the  hearth,  and,  peering  up  the  chimney,  struck  and  prisec 
at  its  sides  with  the  crowbar,  and  worked  at  the  iron  grat 
ing  across  it.  In  a few  minutes,  some  mortar  and  dus 
came  dropping  down,  which  he  averted  his  face  to  avoid jl 
and  in  it,  and  in  the  old  wood-ashes,  and  in  a crevice  in 
the  chimney  into  which  his  weapon  had  slipped  or  wrought 
itself,  he  groped  with  a cautious  touch.  i 

“hlothing  ill  the  wood,  and  nothing  in  the  straw, 
Jacques?  ” 

“ Kothing.” 

“ Let  us  collect  them  together,  in  the  middle  of  the  cell.! 
So ! Light  them,  you ! ” 

The  turnkey  fired  the  little  pile,  which  blazed  high  and 
hot.  Stooping  again  to  come  out  at  the  low-arched  door, 
they  left  it  burning,  and  retraced  their  way  to  the  court 
yard;  seeming  to  recover  their  sense  of  hearing  as  thej 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


207 


came  down,  until  they  were  in  the  raging  flood  once 
more. 

They  found  it  surging  and  tossing,  in  quest  of  Defarge 
himself.  Saint  Antoine  was  clamorous  to  have  its  wine- 
shop keeper  foremost  in  the  guard  upon  the  governor  who 
had  defended  the  Bastile  and  shot  the  people.  Otherwise, 
the  governor  would  not  be  marched  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville 
for  judgment.  Otherwise,  the  governor  would  escape, 
ind  the  people’s  blood  (suddenly  of  some  value,  after 
nany  years  of  worthlessness)  be  unavenged. 

In  the  howling  universe  of  passion  and  contention  that 
>eemed  to  encompass  this  grim  old  ofiScer  conspicuous  in 
lis  grey  coat  and  red  decoration,  there  was  but  one  quite 
iteady  figure,  and  that  was  a woman’s.  See,  there  is  my 
lusband ! ” she  cried,  pointing  him  out.  ''  See  Defarge ! ” 
5he  stood  immovable  close  to  the  grim  old  officer,  and  re- 
uained  immovable  close  to  him;  remained  immovable  close 
[0  him  through  the  streets,  as  Defarge  and  the  rest  bore 
urn  along;  remained  immovable  close  to  him  when  he  was 
,:ot  near  his  destination,  and  began  to  be  struck  at  from 
j>ehind;  remained  immovable  close  to  him  when  the  long- 
athering  rain  of  stabs  and  blows  fell  heavy;  was  so  close 
0 him  when  he  dropped  dead  under  it,  that,  suddenly  ani- 
lated,  she  put  her  foot  upon  his  neck,  and  with  her  cruel 
nife — long  ready — hewed  off  his  head. 

The  hour  was  come,  when  Saint  Antoine  was  to  execute 
IS  horrible  idea  of  hoisting  up  men  for  lamps  to  show 
mat  he  could  be  and  do.  Saint  Antoine’s  blood  was  up, 
nd  the  blood  of  tyranny  and  domination  by  the  iron  hand 
^as  down— down  on  the  steps  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  where 
le  governor’s  body  lay — down  on  the  sole  of  the  shoe  of 
Ladame  Defarge  Avhere  she  had  trodden  on  the  body  to 
jOady  it  for  mutilation.  Lower  the  lamp  yonder!  ” cried 
aint  Antoine,  after  glaring  round  for  a new  means  of 
eath;  here  is  one  of  his  soldiers  to  be  left  on  guard!” 
he  swinging  sentinel  was  posted,  and  the  sea  rushed  on. 
The  sea  of  black  and  threatening  waters,  and  of  destruct- 
■e  upheaving  of  wave  against  wave,  whose  depths  were 
3t  unfathomed  and  whose  forces  were  ^yet  unknown, 
he  remorseless  sea  of  turbulently  swaying  shapes,  voices 
^ vengeance,  and  faces  hardened  in  the  furnaces  of  suf- 
ing  until  the  touch  of  pity  could  make  no  mark  on  them. 
But,  in  the  ocean  of  faces  where  every  fierce  and  furious 


208 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


expression  was  in  vivid  life,  there  were  two  groups  of  faces 
— each  seven  in  number — so  fixedly  contrasting  with  the 
rest,  that  never  did  sea  roll  which  bore  more  memorable 
wrecks  with  it.  Seven  faces  of  prisoners,  suddenly  re- 
leased by  the  storm  that  had  burst  their  tomb,  were  carried 
high  overhead:  all  scared,  all  lost,  all  wondering  and 
amazed,  as  if  the  Last  Day  were  come,  and  those  who  re- 
joiced around  them  were  lost  spirits.  Other  seven  faces 
there  were,  carried  higher,  seven  dead  faces,  whose  droop- 
ing eyelids  and  half-seen  eyes  awaited  the  Last  Day.  Im- 
passive faces,  yet  with  a suspended — not  an  abolished — ex- 
pression on  them;  faces,  rather,  in  a fearful  pause,  as  hay 
ing  yet  to  raise  the  dropped  lids  of  the  eyes,  and  bear  wit- 
ness with  the  bloodless  lips,  Thou  didst  it  ! 

Seven  prisoners  released,  seen  gory  heads  on  pikes,  the 
keys  of  the  accursed  fortress  of  the  eight  strong  towers, 
some  discovered  letters  and  other  memorials  of  prisoners  of 
old  time,  long  dead  of  broken  hearts, — such,  and  such- 
like, the  loudly  echoing  footsteps  of  Saint  Antoine  escort 
through  the  Paris  streets  in  mid- July,  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  eighty-nine.  Now,  Heaven  defeat  the  fancy 
of  Lucie  Darnay,  and  keep  these  feet  far  out  of  her  life! 
For,  they  are  headlong,  mad,  and  dangerous;  and  in  the 
years  so  long  after  the  breaking  of  the  cask  at  Defarge’s 
wine-shop  door,  they  are  not  easily  purified  when  once 
stained  red. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  SEA  STILL  RISES. 

Haggard  Saint  Antoine  had  had  only  one  exultant 
week,  in  which  to  soften  his  modicum  of  hard  and  bitter 
bread  to  such  extent  as  he  could,  with  the  relish  of  fra- 
ternal embraces  and  congratulations,  when  Madame  Defargei 
sat  at  her  counter,  as  usual,  presiding  over  the  customers. 
Madame  Defarge  wore  no  rose  in  her  head,  for  the  great 
brotherhood  of  Spies  had  become,  even  in  one  short  weeb, 
extremely  chary  of  trusting  themselves  to  the  saint’s  mer- 
cies. The  lamps  across  his  streets  had  a portentously 
elastic  swing  with  them. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


209 


Madame  Defarge,  with  her  arms  folded,  sat  in  the  morn- 
iiig  light  and  heat,  contemplating  the  wine-shop  and  the 
street.  In  both,  there  were  several  knots  of  loungers, 
squalid  and  miserable,  but  now  with  a manifest  sense  of 
power  enthroned  on  their  distress.  The  raggedest  night- 
cap, awry  on  the  wretchedest  head,  had  this  crooked  sig- 
nificance in  it : I know  how  hard  it  has  grown  for  me,  the 

wearer  of  this,  to  support  life  in  myself;  but  do  you  know 
/how  easy  it  has  grown  for  me,  the  wearer  of  this,  to  des- 
;troy  life  in  you?  Every  lean  bare  arm,  that  had  been 
without  work  before,  had  this  work  always  ready  for  it 
now,  that  it  could  strike.  The  fingers  of  the  knitting 
women  were  vicious,  with  the  experience  that  they  could 
teai\  There  was  a change  in  the  appearance  of  Saint  An- 
toine; the  image  had  been  hammering  into  this  for  hun- 
dreds of  years,  and  the  last  finishing  blows  had  told  might- 
ily on  the  expression. 

; Madame  Defarge  sat  observing  it,  with  such  suppressed 
approval  as  was  to  be  desired  in  the  leader  of  the  Saint 
Antoine  women.  One  of  her  sisterhood  knitted  beside  her. 
llhe  short,  rather  plump  wife  of  a starved  grocer,  and  the 
mother  of  two  children  withal,  this  lieutenant  had  already 
learned  the  complimentary  name  of  The  Vengeance. 

‘'Hark!''  said  The  Vengeance.  “Listen,  then!  Who 
comes?  " 

As  if  a train  of  powder  laid  from  the  outermost  bound 
)f  Saint  Antoine  Quarter  to  the  wine-shop  door,  had  been 
mddenly  fired,  a fast-spreading  murmur  came  rushing 
ilong. 

“It  is  Defarge,"  said  madame.  “Silence,  patriots!" 

Defarge  came  in  breathless,  pulled  off  a red  cap  he  wore, 
ind  looked  around  him ! “ Listen,  everywhere ! " said  mad- 
Line  again.  “ Listen  to  him ! " Defarge  stood,  panting, 
against  a background  of  eager  eyes  and  open  mouths, 
ormed  outside  the  door;  all  those  within  the  wine-shop 
lad  sprung  to  their  feet. 

, “ Say  then,  my  husband.  What  is  it?  " 

“News  from  the  other  world ! " 

“How,  then?"  cried  madame,  contemptuously.  “The 
•ther  world?  " 

“Does  everybody  here  recall  old  Foulon,  who  told  the 
amished  people  that  they  might  eat  grass,  and  who  died, 
nd  went  to  Hell?  " 

14 


210 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Everybody ! from  all  throats. 

‘^The  news  is  of  him.  He  is  among  us! 

Among  us ! from  the  universal  throat  again.  “ And 
dead?  ” 

‘‘Not  dead!  He  feared  us  so  much — and  with  reason — • 
that  he  caused  himself  to  be  represented  as  dead,  and  had 
a grand  mock-funeral.  But  they  have  found  him  alive, 
hiding  in  the  country,  and  have  brought  him  in.  I have 
seen  him  but  now,  on  his  way  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  a 
prisoner.  I have  said  that  he  had  reason  to  fear  us.  Say 
all ! Had  he  reason? 

Wretched  old  sinner  of  more  than  threescore  years  and 
ten,  if  he  had  never  known  it  yet,  he  would  have  known  it 
in  his  heart  of  hearts  if  he  could  have  heard  the  answering 
cry. 

A moment  of  profound  silence  followed.  Defarge  and 
his  wife  looked  steadfastly  at  one  another.  The  Venge- 
ance stooped,  and  the  jar  of  a drum  was  heard  as  she 
moved  it  at  her  feet  behind  the  counter. 

“Patriots!^’  said  Defarge,  in  a determined  voice,  “are 
we  ready? 

Instantly  Madame  Defarge ’s  knife  was  in  her  girdle; 
the  drum  was  beating  in  the  streets,  as  if  it  and  a drummer 
had  flown  together  by  magic;  and  The  Vengeance,  uttering 
terrific  shrieks,  and  flinging  her  arms  about  her  head  like 
all  the  forty  Furies  at  once,  was  tearing  from  house  to 
house,  rousing  the  women. 

The  men  were  terrible,  in  the  bloody-minded  anger  with 
which  they  looked  from  windows,  caught  up  what  arms 
they  had,  and  came  pouring  down  into  the  streets;  but,  the 
women  were  a sight  to  chill  the  boldest.  From  such  house- 
hold occupations  as  their  bare  poverty  yielded,  from  their 
children,  from  their  aged  and  their  sick  crouching  on  the 
bare  ground  famished  and  naked,  they  ran  out  with  stream- 
ing hair,  urging  one  another,  and  themselves,  to  madness 
with  the  wildest  cries  and  actions.  Villain  Foulon  taken, 
my  sister!  Old  Foulon  taken,  my  mother!  Miscreant 
Foulon  taken,  my  daughter ! Then,  a score  of  others  ran 
into  the  midst  of  these,  beating  their  breasts,  tearing  their 
hair,  and  screaming,  Foulon  alive!  Foulon  who  told  the 
starving  people  they  might  eat  grass ! Foulon  who  told 
my  old  father  that  he  might  eat  grass,  when  I had  no  bread 
to  give  him!  Foulon  who  told  my  baby  it  might  suck 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


211 


grass,  when  these  breasts  were  dry  with  want ! 0 mother 

of  God,  this  Fonlon!  O Heaven,  our  suffering!  Hear  me, 
my  dead  baby  and  my  withered  father : I swear  on  my 
knees,  on  these  stones,  to  avenge  you  on  Foulon!  Hus- 
bands, and  brothers,  and  young  men.  Give  us  the  blood  of 
Foulon,  Give  us  the  head  of  Foulon,  Give  us  the  heart  of 
Foulon,  Give  us  the  body  and  soul  of  Foulon,  Rend  Foulon 
to  pieces,  and  dig  him  into  the  ground,  that  grass  may 
grow  from  him ! With  these  cries,  numbers  of  the  women, 
lashed  into  blind  frenzy,  whirled  about,  striking  and  tear- 
ing at  their  own  friends  until  they  dropped  into  a passion- 
ate swoon,  and  were  only  saved  by  the  men  belonging  to 
them  from  being  trampled  under  foot. 

Nevertheless,  not  a moment  was  lost;  not  a moment! 
This  Foulon  was  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  might  be 
loosed.  Never,  if  Saint  Antoine  knew  his  own  sufferings, 

, insults,  and  wrongs ! Armed  men  and  women  flocked  out 
of  the  Quarter  so  fast,  and  drew  even  these  last  dregs 
after  them  with  such  a force  of  suction,  that  within  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  there  was  not  a human  creature  in 
: Saint  Antoine’s  bosom  but  a few  old  crones  and  the  wailing 
children. 

No.  They  were  all  by  that  time  choking  the  Hall  of  Ex- 
amination where  this  old  man,  ugly  and  wicked,  was,  and 
overflowing  into  the  adjacent  open  space  and  streets.  The 
Defarges,  husband  and  wife.  The  Vengeance,  and  Jacques 
Three,  were  in  the  first  press,  and  at  no  great  distance 
from  him  in  the  Hall. 

See ! ” cried  madame,  pointing  with  her  knife.  See 
the  old  villain  bound  with  ropes.  That  was  well  done 
to  tie  a bunch  of  grass  upon  his  back.  Ha,  ha!  That 
was  well  done.  Let  him  eat  it  now ! ” Madame  put 
her  knife  under  her  arm,  and  clapped  her  hands  as  at  a 
play. 

The  people  immediately  behind  Madame  Defarge,  ex- 
plaining the  cause  of  her  satisfaction  to  those  behind  them, 
and  those  again  explaining  to  others,  and  those  to  others, 
the  neighbouring  streets  resounded  with  the  clapping  of 
hands.  Similarly,  during  two  or  three  hours  of  drawl, 
and  the  winnowing  of  many  bushels  of  words,  Madame 
Defarge’s  frequent  expressions  of  impatience  were  taken 
up,  with  marvellous  quickness,  at  a distance:  the  more 
readily,  because  certain  men  who  had  by  some  wonderful 


212 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


exercise  of  agility  climbed  up  the  external  architecture  to 
look  in  from  the  windows,  knew  Madame  Defarge  well, 
and  acted  as  a telegraph  between  her  and  the  crowd  out- 
side the  building. 

At  length  the  sun  rose  so  high  that  it  struck  a kindly 
ray  as  of  hope  or  protection,  directly  down  upon  the  old 
prisoner’s  head.  The  favour  was  too  much  to  bear;  in  an 
instant  the  barrier  of  dust  and  chaff  that  had  stood  sur- 
prisingly long,  went  to  the  winds,  and  Saint  Antoine  had 
got  him ! 

It  was.  known  directly,  to  the  furthest  confines  of  the 
crowd.  Defarge  had  but  sprung  over  a railing  and  a table, 
and  folded  the  miserable  wretch  in  a deadly  embrace— 
Madame  Defarge  had  but  followed  and  turned  her  hand  in 
one  of  the  ropes  with  which  he  was  tied — The  Vengeance 
and  Jacques  Three  were  not  yet  up  with  them,  and  the 
men  at  the  windows  had  not  yet  swooped  into  the  Hall, 
like  birds  of  prey  from  their  high  perches— when  the  cry 
seemed  to  go  up,  all  over  the  city,  “ Bring  him  out ! Bring 
him  to  the  lamp ! ” 

Down,  and  up,  and  head  foremost  on  the  steps  of  the 
building;  now,  on  his  knees;  now,  on  his  feet;  now,  on 
his  back ; dragged,  and  struck  at,  and  stifled  by  the 
bunches  of  grass  and  straw  that  were  thrust  into  his  face 
by  hundreds  of  hands;  torn,  bruised,  panting,  bleeding, 
yet  always  entreating  and  beseeching  for  mercy;  now  full 
of  vehement  agony  of  action,  with  a small  clear  space 
about  him  as  the  people  drew  one  another  back  that  they 
might  see;  now,  a log  of  dead  wood  drawn  through  a forest 
of  legs;  he  was  hauled  to  the  nearest  street  corner  where 
one  of  the  fatal  lamps  swung,  and  there  Madame  Defarge 
let  him  go — as  a cat  might  have  done  to  a mouse  and 
silently  and  composedly  looked  at  him  while  they  made 
ready,  and  while  he  besought  her : the  women  passionately 
screeching  at  him  all  the  time,  and  the  men  sternly  calling 
out  to  have  him  killed  with  grass  in  his  mouth.  Once,  he 
went  aloft,  and  the  rope  broke,  and  they  caught  him 
shrieking;  twice,  he  went  aloft,  and  the  rope  broke,  and 
they  caught  him  shrieking;  then,  the  rope  was  merciful, 
and  held  him,  and  his  head  was  soon  upon  a pike,  with 
grass  enough  in  the  mouth  for  all  Saint  Antoine  to  dance 
at  the  sight  of. 


for  Saint 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


213 


Antoine  so  shouted  and  danced  his  angry  blood  up,  that 
:t  boiled  again,  on  hearing  when  the  day  closed  in  that  the 
5on-in-law  of  the  despatched,  another  of  the  people’s  ene- 
nies  and  insulters,  was  coming  into  Paris  under  a guard 
ive  hundred  strong,  in  cavalry  alone.  Saint  Antoine  wrote 
ais  crimes  on  flaring  sheets  of  paper,  seized  him — would 
lave  torn  him  out  of  the  breast  of  an  army  to  bear  Foulon 
,:?ompany — set  his  head  and  heart  on  pikes,  and  carried  the 
:hree  spoils  of  the  day,  in  Wolf-procession  through  the 
streets. 

Not  before  dark  night  did  the  men  and  women  come 
3ack  to  the  children,  wailing  and  breadless.  Then,  the 
miserable  bakers’  shops  were  beset  by  long  files  of  them, 
patiently  waiting  to  buy  bad  bread;  and  while  they  waited 
With  stomachs  faint  and  empty,  they  beguiled  the  time  by 
unbracing  one  another  on  the  triumphs  of  the  day,  and 
achieving  them  again  in  gossip.  Gradually,  these  strings 
[)f  ragged  people  shortened  and  frayed  away;  and  then 
^30or  lights  began  to  shine  in  high  windows,  and  slender 
ires  were  made  in  the  streets,  at  which  neighbours  cooked 
jU  common,  afterwards  supping  at  their  doors. 

Scanty  and  insufficient  suppers  those,  and  innocent  of 
neat,  as  of  most  other  sauce  to  wretched  bread.  Yet,  hu- 
nan  fellowship  infused  some  nourishment  into  the  flinty 
dands,  and  struck  some  sparks  of  cheerfulness  out  of 
hem.  Fathers  and  mothers  who  had  had  their  full  share 
n the  worst  of  the  day,  played  gently  with  their  meagre 
children;  and  lovers,  with  such  a world  around  them  and 
)efore  them,  loved  and  hoped. 

' It  was  almost  morning,  when  Defarge’s  wine-shop 
)arted  with  its  last  knot  of  customers,  and  Monsieur  De- 
arge  said  to  madame  his  wife,  in  husky  tones,  while  fast- 
iuing  the  door : 

At  last  it  is  come,  my  dear ! ” 

' Eh  well!”  returned  madame.  ^‘Almost.” 

Saint  Antoine  slept,  the  Defarges  slept : even  The  Venge- 
mce  slept  with  her  starved  grocer,  and  the  drum  was  at 
lest.  The  drum’s  was  the  only  voice  in  Saint  Antoine  that 
’flood  and  hurry  had  not  changed.  The  Vengeance,  as 
ustodian  of  the  drum,  could  have  wakened  him  up  and 
lad  the  same  speech  out  of  him  as  before  the  Bastille  fell, 
n*  old  Foulon  was  seized;  not  so  with  the  hoarse  tones  of 
he  men  and  women  in  Saint  Antoine’s  bosom. 


214 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES, 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

FIRE  RISES. 

There  was  a change  on  the  village  where  the  fountain 
fell,  and  where  the  mender  of  roads  went  forth  daily  to 
hammer  out  of  the  stones  on  the  highway  such  morsels  of 
bread  as  might  serve  for  patches  to  hold  his  poor  ignorant 
soul  and  his  poor  reduced  body  together.  The  prison  on 
the  crag  was  not  so  dominant  as  of  yore;  there  were  sol- 
diers to  guard  it,  but  not  many;  there  were  officers  to  guard 
the  soldiers,  but  not  one  of  them  knew  what  his  men  would 
do — beyond  this : that  it  would  probably  not  be  what  he 
was  ordered. 

Far  and  wide  lay  a ruined  country,  yielding  nothing  but 
desolation.  Every  green  leaf,  every  blade  of  grass  and 
blade  of  grain,  was  as  shrivelled  and  poor  as  the  miser- 
able people.  'Everything  was  bowed  down,  dejected,  op- 
pressed, and  broken.  Habitations,  fences,  domesticated 
animals,  men,  women,  children,  and  the  soil  that  bore  them 
— all  worn  out. 

Monseigneur  (often  a most  worthy  individual  gentleman) 
was  a national  blessing,  gave  a chivalrous  tone  to  things, 
was  a polite  example  of  luxurious  and  shining  life,  and  a 
great  deal  more  to  equal  purpose;  nevertheless.  Mon- 
seigneur as  a class  had,  somehow  or  other,  brought  things 
to  this.  Strange  that  Creation,  designed  expressly  for 
Monseigneur,  should  be  so  soon  wrung  dry  and  squeezed 
out!  There  must  be  something  short-sighted  in  the  eternal 
arrangements,  surely!  Thus  it  was,  however;  and  the 
last  drop  of  l3lood  having  been  extracted  from  the  flints, 
and  the  last  screw  of  the  rack  having  been  turned  so  often 
that  its  purchase  crumbled,  and  it  now  turned  and  turned 
with  nothing  to  bite.  Monseigneur  began  to  run  away  from 
a phenomenon  so  low  and  unaccountable. 

But,  this  was  not  the  change  on  the  village,  and  on  many 
a village  like  it.  For  scores  of  years  gone  by.  Monseigneur 
had  squeezed  it  and  wrung  it,  and  had  seldom  graced  it 
with  his  presence  except  for  the  pleasures  of  the  chase — 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


215 


I 

i 

I now,  found  in  hunting  the  people;  now,  found  in  hunting 
I the  beasts,  for  whose  preservation  Monseigneur  made  edify- 
ing spaces  of  barbarous  and  barren  wilderness.  No.  The 
change  consisted  in  the  appearance  of  strange  faces  of  low 
caste,  rather  than  in  the  disappearance  of  the  high  caste, 
chiselled,  and  otherwise  beautified  and  beautifying  features 
of  Monseigneur. 

For,  in  these  times,  as  the  mender  of  roads  worked, 
solitary,  in  the  dust,  not  often  troubling  himself  to  reflect 
..that  dust  he  was  and  to  dust  he  must  return,  being  for  the 
most  part  too  much  occupied  in  thinking  how  little  he  had 
for  supper  and  how  much  more  he  would  eat  if  he  had  it — 
in  these  times,  as  he  raised  his  eyes  from  his  lonely  labour, 
jand  viewed  the  prospect,  he  would  see  some  rough  figure 
approaching  on  foot,  the  like  of  which  was  once  a rarity 
in  those  parts,  but  wms  now  a frequent  presence.  As  it 
: advanced,  the  mender  of  roads  would  discern  without  sur- 
prise, that  it  was  a shaggy-haired  man,  of  almost  barbarian 
^aspect,  tall,  in  wooden  shoes  that  were  clumsy  even  to  the 
eyes  of  a mender  of  roads,  grim,  rough,  swart,  steeped  in 
I the  mud  and  dust  of  many  highways,  dank  with  the  marshy 
moisture  of  many  low  grounds,  sprinkled  with  the  thorns 
and  leaves  and  moss  of  many  byways  through  woods. 

Such  a man  came  upon  him,  like  a ghost,  at  noon  in  the 
July  weather,  as  he  sat  on  his  heap  of  stones  under  a bank, 
taking  such  shelter  as  he  could  get  from  a shower  of 
hail. 

The  man  looked  at  him,  looked  at  the  village  in  the  hol- 
low, at  the  mill,  and  at  the  prison  on  the  crag.  When  he 
had  identified  these  objects  in  what  benighted  mind  he 
had,  he  said,  in  a dialect  that  was  just  intelligible: 

'^How  goes  it,  Jacques?’^ 

“All  well,  Jacques.” 

“ Touch  then ! ” 

They  joined  hands,  and  the  man  sat  down  on  the  heap 
3f  stones. 

“No  dinner?  ” 

“Nothing  but  supper  now,”  said  the  mender  of  roads, 
^ith  a hungry  face. 

“ It  is  the  fashion,”  growled  the  man.  “ I meet  no  dinner 
iny  where.” 

^ He  took  out  a blackened  pipe,  filled  it,  lighted  it  with 
lint  and  steel,  pulled  at  it  until  it  was  in  a bright  glow : 


216 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


then,  suddenly  held  it  from  him  and  dropped  something 
into  it  from  between  his  finger  and  thumb,  that  blazed  and 
went  out  in  a puff  of  smoke. 

Touch  then.’’  It  was  the  turn  of  the  mender  of  roads 
to  say  it  this  time,  after  observing  these  operations.  They 
again  joined  hands. 

To-night?”  said  the  mender  of  roads. 

To-night,”  said  the  man,  putting  the  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

Where?  ” 

^^Here.” 

He  and  the  mender  of  roads  sat  on  the  heap  of  stones 
looking  silently  at  one  another,  with  the  hail  driving  in  be- 
tween them  like  a pigmy  charge  of  bayonets,  until  the  sky 
began  to  clear  over  the  village. 

Show  me ! ” said  the  traveller  then,  moving  to  the  brow 
of  the  hill. 

See ! ” returned  the  mender  of  roads,  with  extended 
finger.  ^^You  go  down  here,  and  straight  through  the 

street,  and  past  the  fountain ” 

‘‘  To  the  Devil  with  all  that ! ” interrupted  the  other,  roll- 
ing his  eye  over  the  landscape.  I go  through  no  streets 
and  past  no  fountains.  Well?  ” 

^^Well!  About  two  leagues  beyond  the  summit  of  that 
hill  above  the  village.” 

‘^Good.  When  do  you  cease  to  work?  ” 

^^At  sunset.” 

Will  you  wake  me,  before  departing?  I have  walked 
two  nights  without  resting.  Let  me  finish  my  pipe,  and 
I shall  sleep  like  a child.  Will  you  wake  me?  ” 

Surely.” 

The  wayfarer  smoked  his  pipe  out,  put  it  in  his  breast, 
slipped  off  his  great  wooden  shoes,  and  lay  down  on  his 
back  on  the  heap  of  stones.  He  was  fast  asleep  directly. 

As  the  road-mender  plied  his  dusty  labour,  and  the  hail- 
clouds,  rolling  away,  revealed  bright  bars  and  streaks  of 
sky  which  were  responded  to  by  silver  gleams  upon  the 
landscape,  the  little  man  (who  wore  a red  cap  now,  in 
place  of  his  blue  one)  seemed  fascinated  by  the  figure  on 
the  heap  of  stones.  His  eyes  were  so  often  turned  towards 
it,  that  he  used  his  tools  mechanically,  and,  one  would 
have  said,  to  very  poor  account.  The  bronze  face,  the 
shaggy  black  hair  and  beard,  the  coarse  woollen  red  cap, 
the  rough  medley  dress  of  home-spun  stuff  and  hairy  skin* 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


217 


of  beasts,  the  powerful  frame  attenuated  by  spare  living 
and  the  sullen  and  desperate  compression  of  the  lips  in 
sleep,  inspired  the  mender  of  roads  with  awe.  The  trav- 
ellei  had  travelled  far,  and  his  feet  were  footsore,  and  his 
ankles  chafed  and  bleeding;  his  great  shoes,  stuffed  with 
leaves  and  grass,  had  been  heavy  to  drag  over  the  many 
long  leagues,  and  his  clothes  were  chafed  into  holes,  as  he 
hiniself  was  into  sores.  Stooping  down  beside  him,  the 
road-mender  tried  to  get  a peep  at  secret  weapons  in  his 
breast  or  where  not;  but,  in  vain,  for  he  slept  with  his  arms 
crossed  upon  him,  and  set  as  resolutely  as  his  lips.  Forti- 
ned  towns  with  their  stockades,  guard-houses,  gates, 
trenches,  and  drawbridges,  seemed  to  the  mender  of  roads, 
to  be  so  much  air  as  against  this  figure.  And  when  he 
ifted  his  eyes  from  it  to  the  horizon  and  looked  around, 
e saw  in  his  small  fancy  similar  figures,  stopped  by  no 
obstacle,  tending  to  centres  all  over  France. 

The  man  slept  on,  indifferent  to  showers  of  hail  and  in- 
tervals of  brightness,  to  sunshine  on  his  face  and  shadow, 
to  the  pattering  lumps  of  dull  ice  on  his  body  and  the  dia- 
imonds  into  which  the  sun  changed  them,  until  the  sun  was 
low  in  the  west,  and  the  sky  was  glowing.  Then,  the 
mender  of  roads  having  got  his  tools  together  and  all  things 
ready  to  go  down  into  the  village,  roused  him. 

(jood ! ” said  the  sleeper,  rising  on  his  elbow.  “ Two 
leagues  beyond  the  summit  oJf  the  hill^  ” 

“About.” 

“ About.  Good ! ” 

The  mender  of  roads  went  home,  with  the  dust  going  on 
im  according  to  the  set  of  the  wind,  and  was  soon 
iron  squeezing  himself  in  among  the  lean  kiiie 

orought  there  to  drink,  and  appearing  even  to  whisper  to 
Aem  in  his  whispering  to  all  the  village.  When  the  vil- 
t nt  fn  i*  did  not  creep  to  bed,  as 

IT  I and  remained 

nri  1 ^ curious  contagion  of  whispering  was  upon  it, 
■nd  also,  when  it  gathered  together  at  the  fountain  in  the 
laik  another  curious  contagion  of  looking  expectantly  at 
tie  sky  in  one  direction  only.  Monsieur  Gabelle,  chief 

became  uneasy;  went  out  on  his 
ouse-top  alone,  and  looked  in  that  direction  too;  glanced 

.own  from  behind  his  chimneys  at  the  darkening  ffces  by 
..  e fountain  below,  and  sent  word  to  the  sacristan  who 


218 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


kept  the  keys  of  the  church,  that  there  might  be  need  to 
ring  the  tocsin  by-and-bye. 

The  night  deepened.  The  trees  environing  the  old  cha- 
teau, keeping  its  solitary  state  apart,  moved  in  a rising 
wind,  as  though  they  threatened  the  pile  of  building 
massive  and  dark  in  the  gloom.  Up  the  two  terrace  flights 
of  steps  the  rain  ran  wildly,  and  beat  at  the  great  door, 
like  a swift  messenger  rousing  those  within;  uneasy  rushes 
of  wind  went  through  the  hall,  among  the  old  spears  and 
knives,  and  passed  lamenting  up  the  stairs,  and  shook  the 
curtains  of  the  bed  where  the  last  Marquis  had  slept. 
East,  West,  North,  and  South,  through  the  woods,  four 
heavy-treading,  unkempt  figures  crushed  the  high  grass  and 
cracked  the  branches,  striding  on  cautiously  to  come  to- 
gether in  the  courtyard.  Four  lights  broke  out  there,  and 
moved  away  in  different  directions,  and  all  was  black  again. 

But,  not  for  long.  Presently,  the  chateau  began  to  make 
itself  strangely  visible  by  some  light  of  its  own,  as  though 
it  were  growing  luminous.  Then,  a flickering  streak  played 
behind  the  architecture  of  the  front,  picking  out  transparent 
places,  and  showing  where  balustrades,  arches,  and  win- 
dows were.  Then  it  soared  higher,  and  grew  broader  and 
brighter.  Soon,  from  a score  of  the  great  windows,  flames 
burst  forth,  and  the  stone  faces  awakened,  stared  out  of 
fire. 

A faint  murmur  arose  about  the  house  from  the  few  peo- 
ple who  were  left  there,  and  there  was  a saddling  of  a 
horse  and  riding  away.  There  was  spurring  and  splash- 
ing through  the  darkness,  and  bridle  was  drawn  in  the 
space  by  the  village  fountain,  and  the  horse  in  a foam  stood 
at  Monsieur  Gabelle’s  door.  ^^Help,  Gabelle!  Help,  ev- 
ery one ! ” The  tocsin  rang  impatiently,  but  other  help  (if 
that  were  any)  there  was  none.  The  mender  of  roads,  and 
two  hundred  and  fifty  particular  friends,  stood  with  folded 
arms  at  the  fountain,  looking  at  the  pillar  of  fire  in  the 
sky.  ''It  must  be  forty  feet  high,”  said  they,  and 

never  moved. 

The  rider  from  the  chateau,  and  the  horse  in  a foam, 
clattered  away  through  the  village,  and  galloped  up  the 
stony  steep,  to  the  prison  on  the  crag.  At  tne  gate,  a 
group  of  officers  were  looking  at  the  fire;  removed  from 
them,  a group  of  soldiers.  "Help,  gentlemen-officers ! 
The  ch§.teau  is  on  fire;  valuable  objects  may  be  saved  from 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES.  219 

the  flames  by  timely  aid!  Help,  help!'’  The  officers 
looked  towards  the  soldiers  who  looked  at  the  fire;  gave 
no  orders;  and  answered,  with  shrugs  and  biting  of  lips 
“It  must  burn.” 

As  the  rider  rattled  down  the  hill  again  and  through  the 
street,  the  village  was  illuminating.  The  mender  of  roads 
and  the  two  hundred  and  fifty  particular  friends,  inspired 
as  one  man  and  woman  by  the  idea  of  lighting  up,  had 
darted  into  their  houses,  and  were  putting  candles  in  every 
dull  little  pane  of  glass.  The  general  scarcity  of  every- 
thing,  occasioned  candles  to  be  borrowed  in  a rather  per- 
emptory  manner  of  Monsieur  Gabelle;  and  in  a moment  of 
reluctance  and  hesitation  on  that  functionary’s  part,  the 
mender  of  roads,  once  so  submissive  to  authority,  had  re- 
marked that  carriages  were  good  to  make  bonfires  with,  and 
that  post-horses  would  roast. 

The  chateau  was  left  to  itself  to  flame  and  burn.  In  the 
roaring  and  raging  of  the  conflagration,  a red-hot  wind 
diiving  straight  from  the  infernal  regions,  seemed  to  be 
blowing  the  edifice  away.  With  the  rising  and  falling  of 
the  blaze,  the  stone  faces  showed  as  if  they  were  in  tor- 
ment.  When  great  masses  of  stone  and  timber  fell,  the 
face  with  the  two  dints  in  the  nose  became  obscured : anon 
struggled  out  of  the  smoke  again,  as  if  it  were  the  face  of 
the  cruel  Marquis,  burning  at  the  stake  and  contending 
with  the  fire.  ® 

The  chateau  burned;  the  nearest  trees,  laid  hold  of  by 
the  fire,  scorched  and  shrivelled;  trees  at  a distance,  fired 
by  the  four  fierce  figures,  begirt  the  blazing  edifice  with  a 
new  forest  of  smoke.  Molten  lead  and  iron  boiled  in  the 
marble  basin  of  the  fountain;  the  water  ran  dry;  the  ex- 
tinguisher tops  of  the  towers  vanished  like  ice  before  the 
heat,  and  trickled  down  into  four  rugged  wells  of  flame, 
jreat  rents  and  splits  branched  out  in  the  solid  walls,  like 
irystallisation;  stupefied  birds  wheeled  about  and  dropped 
nto  the  furnace;  four  fierce  figures  trudged  away.  East, 
West,  North,  and  South,  along  the  night-enshrouded  roads, 
pided  by  the  beacon  tliey  had  lighted,  towards  their  next 
lestination.  The  illuminated  village  had  seized  hold  of 
he  tocsin,  and,  abolishing  the  lawful  ringer,  rang  for  joy 
_ Not  only  that;  but  the  village,  light-headed  with  famine, 
ire  and  bell-ringing,  and  bethinking  itself  that  Monsieur 
xabelle  had  to  do  with  the  collection  of  rent  and  taxes— 


220 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


though  it  was  but  a small  instalment  of  taxes,  and  no  rent 
at  all,  that  Gabelle  had  got  in  those  latter  days — became 
impatient  for  an  interview  with  him,  and,  surrounding  his 
house,  summoned  him  to  come  forth  for  personal  confer- 
ence. Whereupon,  Monsieur  Gabelle  did  heavily  bar  his 
door,  and  retire  to  hold  counsel  with  himself.  The  result 
of  that  conference  was,  that  Gabelle  again  withdrew  him- 
self to  his  house-top  behind  his  stack  of  chimneys;  this 
time  resolved,  if  his  door  were  broken  in  (he  was  a small 
Southern  man  of  retaliative  temperament),  to  pitch  himself 
head  foremost  over  the  parapet,  and  crush  a man  or  two 
below. 

Probably,  Monsieur  Gabelle  passed  a long  night  up  there, 
with  the  distant  chateau  for  fire  and  candle,  and  the  beat- 
ing at  his  door,  combined  with  the  joy-ringing,  for  music; 
not  to  mention  his  having  an  ill-omened  lamp  slung  across 
the  road  before  his  posting-house  gate,  which  the  village 
showed  a lively  inclination  to  displace  in  his  favour.  A 
trying  suspense,  to  be  passing  a whole  summer  night  on  the 
brink  of  the  black  ocean,  ready  to  take  that  plunge  into  it 
upon  which  Monsieur  Gabelle  had  resolved!  But,  the 
friendly  dawn  appearing  at  last,  and  the  rush-candles  of 
the  village  guttering  out,  the  people  happily  dispersed,  and 
Monsieur  Gabelle  came  down  bringing  his  life  with  him 
for  that  while. 

Within  a hundred  miles,  and  in  the  light  of  other  fires, 
there  were  other  functionaries  less  fortunate,  that  night 
and  other  nights,  whom  the  rising  sun  found  hanging 
across  once-peaceful  streets,  where  they  had  been  born  and 
bred;  also,  there  were  other  villagers  and  townspeople  less 
fortunate  than  the  mender  of  roads  and  his  fellows,  upon 
whom  the  functionaries  and  soldiery  turned  with  success, 
and  whom  they  strung  up  in  their  turn.  But,  the  fierce 
figures  were  steadily  wending  East,  West,  North,  and 
South,  be  that  as  it  would;  and  whosoever  hung,  fire 
burned.  The  altitude  of  the  gallows  that  would  turn  to 
water  and  quench  it,  no  functionary,  by  any  stretch  of 
mathematics,  was  able  to  calculate  successfully. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


221 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

DRAWN  TO  THE  LOADSTONE  ROCK. 

In  such  risings  of  fire  and  risings  of  sea — the  firm  earth 
shaken  by  the  rushes  of  an  angry  ocean  which  had  now  no 
jbb,  but  was  always  on  the  flow,  higher  and  higher,  to  the 
jCrror  and  wonder  of  the  beholders  on  the  shore — three 
rears  of  tempest  were  consumed.  Three  more  birthdays 
)f  little  Lucie  had  been  woven  by  the  golden  thread  into 
:;he  peaceful  tissue  of  the  life  of  her  home. 

Many  a night  and  many  a day  had  its  inmates  listened 
rO  the  echoes  in  the  corner,  with  hearts  that  failed  them 
|Vhen  they  heard  the  thronging  feet.  For,  the  footsteps 
pad  become  to  their  minds  as  the  footsteps  of  a people, 
umultuous  under  a red  flag  and  with  their  country  de- 
: lared  in  danger,  changed  into  wild  beasts,  by  terrible  en- 
ihantment  long  persisted  in. 

Monseigneur,  as  a class,  had  dissociated  himself  from 
he  phenomenon  of  his  not  being  appreciated:  of  his  being 

0 little  wanted  in  France,  as  to  incur  considerable  danger 
f receiving  his  dismissal  from  it,  and  this  life  together, 
jike  the  fabled  rustic  who  raised  the  Devil  with  infinite 
ains,  and  was  so  terrified  at  the  sight  of  him  that  he  could 
sk  the  Enemy  no  question,  but  immediately  fled;  so,  Mon- 
signeur,  after  boldly  reading  the  Lord’s  Prayer  back- 
wards for  a great  number  of  years,  and  performing  many 
bher  potent  spells  for  compelling  the  Evil  One,  no  sooner 
eheld  him  in  his  terrors  than  he  took  to  his  noble  heels. 

The  shining  Bull’s  Eye  of  the  Court  was  gone,  or  it 
ould  have  been  the  mark  for  a hurricane  of  national  bul- 
:ts.  It  had  never  been  a good  eye  to  see  with — had  long 
id  the  mote  in  it  of  Lucifer’s  pride,  Sardanapalus’s  luxury, 

1 id  a mo].e’s  blindness — but  it  had  dropped  out  and  was 
me.  The  Court,  from  that  exclusive  inner  circle  to  its 
itermost  rotten  ring  of  intrigue,  corruption,  and  dissimu- 
tion,  was  all  gone  together.  Royalty  was  gone;  had  been 
isieged  in  its  Palace  and  “suspended,”  when  the  last  tid- 
gs  came  over. 

The  August  of  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and 


222 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


ninet}'-two  was  come,  and  Monseigneur  was  by  this  time 
scattered  far  and  wide. 

As  was  natural,  the  head-quarters  and  great  gathering- 
place  of  Mouseigneur,  in  London,  was  Tellson’s  Bank. 
Spirits  are  supposed  to  haunt  the  places  where  their  bodies 
most  resorted,  and  Monseigneur  without  a guinea  haunted 
the  spot  where  his  guineas  used  to  be.  Moreover,  it  was 
the  spot  to  which  such  French  intelligence  as  was  most  to 
be  relied  upon,  came  quickest.  Again:  Tellson’s  was  a 
munificent  house,  and  extended  great  liberality  to  old  cus- 
tomers who  had  fallen  from  their  high  estate.  Again: 
those  nobles  who  had  seen  the  coming  storm  in  time,  and 
anticipating  plunder  or  confiscation,  had  made  provident 
remittances  to  Tellson’s,  were  always  to  be  heard  of  there 
by  their  needy  brethren.  To  which  it  must  be  added  that 
every  new-comer  from  Fi'ance  reported  himself  and  his  tid- 
ings at  Tellson’s,  almost  as  a matter  of  course.  For  such 
variety  of  reasons,  Tellson’s  was  at  that  time,  as  to  French 
intelligence,  a kind  of  High  Exchange;  and  this  was  so 
well  known  to  the  public,  and  the  inquiries  made  there 
were  in  consequence  so  numerous,  that  Tellson  s sometimes 
wrote  the  latest  news  out  in  a line  or  so  and  posted  it  in  the 
Bank  windows,  for  all  who  ran  through  Temple  Bar  to  read. 

On  a steaming,  misty  afternoon,  Mr.  Lorry  sat  at  his 
desk,  and  Charles  Darnay  stood  leaning  on  it,  talking  with 
him  in  a low  voice.  The  penitential  den  once  set  apart  for 
interviews  with  the  House,  was  now  the  news-Exchange, 
and  was  filled  to  overflowing.  It  was  within  half  an  hour 
or  so  of  the  time  of  closing. 

“But,  although  you  are  the  youngest  man  that  ever- 
lived,”  said  Charles  Darnay,  rather  hesitating,  “I  must 
still  suggest  to  you ” 

“ I irnderstand.  That  I am  too  old?  sard  Mr.  Lorry. 

“ Urrsettled  weather,  a long  journey,  uncertain  means  of 
travellirrg,  a disorganised  country,  a city  that  may  not  be 
even  safe  for  you.” 

“ My  dear  Charles,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  wrth  cl.  j4”ful  con- 
fidence, “ you  touch  some  of  the  reasons  for  my  gorng : not 
for  my  staying  away.  It  is  safe  enough  for  me;  nobody 
will  care  to  interfere  with  an  old  fellow  of  hard  upon  four- 
score when  there  are  so  many  people  there  much  better 
worth  interfering  with.  As  to  its  being  a disorganised 
city,  if  it  were  not  a disorganised  city  there  would  be  no 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

occasion  to  send  somebody  from  our  House  here  to  our 
House  there,  who  knows  the  city  and  the  business,  of  old, 
and  is  in  Tellson’s  confidence.  As  to  the  uncertain  travel- 
ling, the  long  journey,  and  the  winter  weather,  if  I were 
not  prepared  to  submit  myself  to  a few  inconveniences  for 
the  sake  of  Tellson^s,^  after  all  these  years,  who  ought  to 
be?^^ 

. wish  I were  going  myself,’^  said  Charles  Darnay, 
somewhat  restlessly,  and  like  one  thinking  aloud. 

Indeed!  You  are  a pretty  fellow  to  object  and  ad- 
vise ! ’’  exclaimed  Mr.  Lorry.  You  wish  you  were  going 
yourself?  And  you  a Frenchman  born?  You  are  a wise 
counsellor.’^ 

My  dear  Mr.  Lorry,  it  is  because  I am  a Frenchman 
born,  that  the  thought  (which  I did  not  mean  to  utter  here, 
however)  has  passed  through  my  mind  often.  One  cannot 
help  thinking,  having  had  some  sympathy  for  the  miser- 
able people,  and  having  abandoned  something  to  them,” 
he  spoke  here  in  his  former  thoughtful  manner,  that  one 
might  be  listened  to,  and  might  have  the  power  to  persuade 
to  some  restraint.  Only  last  night,  after  you  had  left  us, 
when  I was  talking  to  Lucie ” 

When  you  were  talking  to  Lucie,”  Mr.  Lorry  repeated. 
Yes.  I wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  to  mention  the 
aame  of  Lucie ! Wishing  you  were  going  to  France  at  this 
time  of  day ! ” 

'^However,  I am  not  going,”  said  Charles  Darnay,  with 
i smile.  ‘‘It  is  more  to  the  purpose  that  you  say  you 

^ ''And  I am,  in  plain  reality.  The  truth  is,  my  dear 
Charles,”  Mr.  Lorry  glanced  at  the  distant  House,  and 
owered  his  voice,  "you  can  have  no  conception  of  the  diffi- 
mlty  with  which  our  business  is  transacted,  and  of  the  peril 
books  and  papers  over  yonder  are  involved. 
Che  Lord  above  knows  what  the  compromising  conse- 
[uences  would  be  to  numbers  of  people,  if  some  of  our 
locuments  were  seized  or  destroyed;  and  they  might  be, 

't  time,  you  know,  for  who  can  say  that  Paris  is  not 
et  afire  to-day,  or  sacked  to-morrow!  Now,  a judicious 
election  from  these  with  the  least  possible  delay,  and  the 
jurying  of  them,  or  otherwise  getting  of  them  out  of  harm’s 
^ay,  IS  within  the  power  (without  loss  of  precious  time) 
f scarcely  any  one  but  myself,  if  any  one.  And  shall  I 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


hang  back,  when  TellsoiFs  knows  this  and  says  this — 'telL 
soiFs,  whose  bread  I have  eaten  these  sixty  years — because 
I am  a little  stiff  about  the  joints?  Why,  I am  a boy,  sir, 
to  half  a dozen  old  codgers  here ! 

“ How  I admire  the  gallantry  of  your  youthful  spirit,' 
Mr.  Lorry.’’  j 

^^Tut!  Nonsense,  sir! — And,  my  dear  Charles,”  saidj 
Mr.  Lorry,  glancing  at  the  House  again,  ^^you  are  to  re-j 
member,  that  getting  things  out  of  Paris  at  this  present! 
time,  no  matter  what  things,  is  next  to  an  impossibility.! 
Papers  and  precious  matters  were  this  very  day  brought  tc 
us  here  (I  speak  in  strict  confidence;  it  is  not  business-likt 
to  whisper  it,  even  to  you),  by  the  strangest  bearers  yor 
can  imagine,  every  one  of  whom  had  his  head  hanging  or 
by  a single  hair  as  he  passed  the  Barriers.  At  anothei 
time,  our  parcels  would  come  and  go,  as  easily  as  in  busi- 
ness-like Old  England;  but  now,  everything  is  stopped.” 
And  do  you  really  go  to-night?  ” 

I really  go  to-night,  for  the  case  has  become  too  press- 
ing to  admit  of  delay.” 

And  do  you  take  no  one  with  you?  ” 

All  sorts  of  people  have  been  proposed  to  me,  but  1 
will  have  nothing  to  say  to  any  of  them.  I intend  to  take 
Jerry.  Jerry  has  been  my  body-guard  on  Sunday  nights 
for  a long  time  past,  and  I am  used  to  him.  Nobody  wil  j 
suspect  Jerry  of  being  anything  but  an  English  bull-dog,  oi 
of  having  any  design  in  his  head  but  to  fly  at  anybody  wh(| 
touches  his  master.” 

I must  say  again  that  I heartily  admire  your  gallantr;\ 
and  youthfulness.” 

I must  say  again,  nonsense,  nonsense ! When  I hav< 
executed  this  little  commission,  I shall,  perhaps,  accep 
Tellson’s  proposal  to  retire  and  live  at  my  ease.  Tim« 
enough,  then,  to  think  about  growing  old.” 

This  dialogue  had  taken  place  at  Mr.  Lorry’s  usual  desk 
with  Monseigneur  swarming  within  a yard  or  two  of  it 
boastful  of  what  he  would  do  to  avenge  himself  on  th« 
rascal-people  before  long.  It  was  too  much  the  way  o 
Monseigneur  under  his  reverses  as  a refugee,  and  it  wa 
much  too  much  the  way  of  native  British  orthodoxy,  t- 
talk  of  this  terrible  Revolution  as  if  it  were  the  only  har 
vest  ever  known  under  the  skies  that  had  not  been  sown- 
as  if  nothing  had  ever  been  done,  or  omitted  to  be  dom^ 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


225 


;hat  had  led  to  it — as  if  observers  of  the  wretched  millions 
n France,  and  of  the  misused  and  perverted  resources  that 
ihould  have  made  them  prosperous,  had  not  seen  it  inevi- 
ably  coming,  years  before,  and  had  not  in  plain  words  re- 
corded what  they  saw.  Such  vapouring,  combined  with 
he  extravagant  plots  of  Monseigneur  for  the  restoration  of 
, state  of  things  that  had  utterly  exhausted  itself,  and 
vorn  out  Heaven  and  earth  as  well  as  itself,  was  hard  to 
le  endured  without  some  remonstrance  by  any  sane  man 
.'ho  knew  the  truth-  And  it  was  such  vapouring  all  about 
is  ears,  like  a troublesome  confusion  of  blood  in  his  own 
ead,  added  to  a latent  uneasiness  in  his  mind,  which  had 
Iready  made  Charles  Darnay  restless,  and  which  still  kept 
lim  so. 

^ Among  the  talkers,  was  Stryver,  of  the  King’s  Bench 
tar,  far  on  his  way  to  state  promotion,  and  therefore,  loud 
n the  theme:  broaching  to  Monseigneur,  his  devices  fbr 
lowing  the  people  up  and  exterminating  them  from  the 
me  of  the  earth,  and  doing  without  them : and  for  accom- 
lishiug  many  similar  objects  akin  in  their  nature  to  the 
bolition  of  eagles  by  sprinkling  salt  on  the  tails  of  the 
ice.  Him,  Darnay  heard  with  a particular  feeling  of  ob- 
iiction;  and  Darnay  stood  divided  between  going  away  that 
;e  might  hear  no  more,  and  remaining  to  interpose  his  word, 
hen  the  thing  that  was  to  be,  went  on  to  shape  itself  out. 
The  House  approached  Mr.  Lorry,  and  laying  a soiled 
id  unopened  letter  before  him,  asked  if  he  had  yet  dis- 
)vered  any  traces  of  the  person  to  whom  it  was  addressed? 
he  House  laid  the  letter  down  so  close  to  Darnay  that  he 
iw  the  direction — the  more  quickly  because  it  was  his  own 
.ght  name.  The  address,  turned  into  English,  ran : 

Very^  pressing.  To  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis 
.3.  Evremonde,  of  France.  Confided  to  the  cares  of 
essrs.  Tellson  and  Co.,  Bankers,  London,  England.” 

! On  the  marriage  morning.  Doctor  Manette  had  made  it 
,s  one  urgent  and  express  request  to  Charles  Darnay,  that 
e secret  of  this  name  should  be— unless  he,  the  Doctor, 
issolved  the  obligation— kept  inviolate  between  them. 
;obody  else  knew  it  to  be  his  name;  his  own  wife  had  no 
spicion  of  the  fact;  Mr.  Lorry  could  have  none. 

I “No,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  reply  to  the  House;  “I  have 
erred  it,  I think,  to  everybody  now  here,  and  no  one  can 

II  me, where  this  gentleman  is  to  be  found.” 

16 


226 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


The  hands  of  the  clock  verging  upon  the  hour  of  closing 
the  Bank,  there  was  a general  set  of  the  current  of  talkers 
past  Mr.  Lorry’s  desk.  He  held  the  letter  out  inquir- 
ingly; and  Monseigneur  looked  at  it,  in  the  person  of  this 
plotting  and  indignant  refugee;  and  Monseigneur  looked 
at  it  in  the  person  of  that  plotting  and  indignant  refugee; 
and  This,  That,  and  The  Other,  all  had  something  dis- 
paraging to  say,  in  French  or  in  English,  concerning  the 
Marquis  who  was  not  to  be  found. 

“Nephew,  I believe — but  in  any  case  degenerate  suc- 
cessor— of  the  polished  Marquis  who  was  murdered,”  said 
one.  “Happy  to  say,  I never  knew  him.” 

“A  craven  who  abandoned  his  post,”  said  another — this 
Monseigneur  had  been  got  out  of  Paris,  legs  uppermost 
and  half  suffocated,  in  a load  of  hay— “some  years  ago.” 
“Infected  with  the  new  doctrines,”  said  a third,  eyeing 
tRe  direction  through  his  glass  in  passing;  “set  himself  in 
opposition  to  the  last  Marquis,  abandoned  the  estates  when 
he  inherited  them,  and  left  them  to  the  ruffian  herd.  They 
will  recompense  him  now,  I hope,  as  he  deserves.” 

“ Hey?  ” cried  the  blatant  Stryver.  “ Did  he  though? 
Is  that  the  sort  of  fellow?  Let  us  look  at  his  infamous 
name.  D — n the  fellow ! ” 

Darnay,  unable  to  restrain  himself  any  longer,  touched 
Mr.  Stryver  on  the  shoulder,  and  said : 

“ I know  the  fellow.  ” 

“ Do  you,  by  Jupiter?  ” said  Stryver.  “I  am  sorry  for  it.” 
“ Why?  ” 

“Why,  Mr.  Darnay?  D’ye  hear  what  he  did?  Don’t 
ask,  why,  in  these  times.” 

“ But  I do  ask  why?  ” 

“Then  I tell  you  again,  Mr.  Darnay,  I am  sorry  for  it.j 
I am  sorry  to  hear  you  putting  any  such  extraordinaryi 
questions.  Here  is  a fellow,  who,  infected  by  the  most 
pestilent  and  blasphemous  code  of  devilry  that  ever  was 
known,  abandoned  his  property  to  the  vilest  scum  of  the 
earth  that  ever  did  murder  by  wholesale,  and  you  ask  me 
why  I am  sorry  that  a man  who  instructs  youth  knows  him? 
Well,  but  I’ll  answer  you.  I am  sorry  because  I believe 
there  is  contamination  in  such  a scoundrel.  That’s  why.” 
Mindful  of  the  secret,  Darnay  with  great  difficuliyj 
checked  himself,  and  said : “ You  may  not  understand  tluj 
gentleman.”  j 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


227 


I understand  how  to  put  you  in  a corner,  Mr.  Darnay, 
laid  Bully  Stryver,  and  I'll  do  it.  If  this  fellow  is  a 
, gentleman,  I donH  understand  him.  You  may  tell  him  so, 
vith  my  compliments.  You  may  also  tell  him,  from  me, 
hat  after  abandoning  his  worldy  goods  and  position  to  this 
)utcherly  mob,  I wonder  he  is  not  at  the  head  of  them. 
3ut,  no,  gentlemen,"  said  Stryver,  looking  all  round,  and 
napping  his  fingers,  ''  I know  something  of  human  nature, 
nd  I tell  you  that  you'll  never  find  a fellow  like  this  fel- 
'ow,  trusting  himself  to  the  mercies  of  such  precious  ;pro- 
eges.  ISTo,  gentlemen;  he'll  always  show  'em  a clean  pair 
f heels  very  early  in  the  scuffle,  and  sneak  away." 

W ith  those  words,  and  a final  snap  of  his  fingers,  Mr. 
jltryver  shouldered  himself  into  Fleet-street,  amidst  the 
eneral  approbation  of  his  hearers.  Mr.  Lorry  and  Charles 
)arnay  were  left  alone  at  the  desk,  in  the  general  depart- 
re  from  the  Bank. 

' Will  you  take  charge  of  the  letter?  " said  Mr.  Lorry. 
You  know  where  to  deliver  it?  " 

. ^^do." 

i Will  you  undertake  to  explain,  that  we  suppose  it  to 
ave  been  addressed  here,  on  the  chance  of  our  knowing 
'here  to  forward  it,  and  that  it  has  been  here  some  time?  " 
^^I  will  do  so.  Do  you  start  for  Paris  from  here?  " 
^‘From  here,  at  eight." 

^^I  will  come  back,  to  see  you  off." 

Very  ill  at  ease  with  himself,  and  with  Stryver  and  most 
bher  men,  Darnay  made  the  best  of  his  way  into  the  quiet 
F the  Temple,  opened  the  letter,  and  read  it.  These  were 
s contents : 


Prison  of  the  Abbaye,  Paris. 
^Mune  21,  1792. 

Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis. 

After  having  long  been  in  danger  of  my  life  at  the 
mds  of  the  village,  I have  been  seized,  with  great  vio- 
nce  and  indignity,  and  brought  a long  journey  on  foot  to 
aris.  On  the  road  I have  suffered  a great  deal.  Nor  is 
lat  all;  my  house  has  been  destroyed — razed  to  the 
’ound. 

‘^The  crime  for  which  I am  imprisoned,  Monsieur  here- 
•fore  the  Marquis,  and  for  which  I shall  be  summoned 
ffore  the  tribunal,  and  shall  lose  my  life  (without  your  so 


228 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


generous  help),  is,  they  tell  me,  treason  against  the  maj- 
esty of  the  people,  in  that  I have  acted  against  them  for 
an  emigrant.  It  is  in  vain  I represent  that  I have  acted 
for  them,  and  not  against,  according  to  your  commands. 
It  is  in  vain  I represent  that,  before  the  sequestration  of 
emigrant  property,  I had  remitted  the  imposts  they  had 
ceased  to  pay;  that  I had  collected  no  rent;  that  I had 
had  recourse  to  no  process.  The  only  response  is,  that  I 
have  acted  for  an  emigrant,  and  where  is  that  emigrant? 

Ah ! most  gracious  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis, 
where  is  that  emigrant?  I cry  in  my  sleep  where  is  he? 
I demand  of  Heaven,  will  he  not  come  to  deliver  me?  No 
answer.  Ah  Monsieur  heretofore  the  Marquis,  I send  my 
desolate  cry  across  the  sea,  hoping  it  may  perhaps  reach 
your  ears  through  the  great  bank  of  Tilson  known  at  Paris ! 

^‘For  the  love  of  Heaven,  of  justice,  of  generosity,  of  the 
honour  of  your  noble  name,  I supplicate  you.  Monsieur 
heretofore  the  Marquis,  to  succour  and  release  me.  My 
fault  is,  that  I have  been  true  to  you.  Oh  Monsieur  here- 
tofore the  Marquis,  I pray  you  be  you  true  to  me ! 

From  this  prison  here  of  horror,  whence  I every  hour 
tend  nearer  and  nearer  to  destruction,  I send  you.  Monsieur 
heretofore  the  Marquis,  the  assurance  of  my  dolorous  and 
unhappy  service.  ‘‘  Your  afflicted, 

Gabelle.’’ 

The  latent  uneasiness  in  Darnay’s  mind  was  roused  to 
vigorous  life  by  this  letter.  The  peril  of  an  old  servant 
and  a good  one,  whose  only  crime  was  fidelity  to  himself 
and  his  family,  stared  him  so  reproachfully  in  the  face, 
that,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  Temple  considering 
what  to  do,  he  almost  hid  his  face  from  the  passers-by. 

He  knew  very  well,  that  in  his  horror  of  the  deed  which 
had  culminated  the  bad  deeds  and  bad  reputation  of  the 
old  family  house,  in  his  resentful  suspicions  of  his  uncle, 
and  in  the  aversion  with  which  his  conscience  regarded  the 
crumbling  fabric  that  he  was  supposed  to  uphold,  he  had 
acted  imperfectly.  He  knew  very  well,  that  in  his  love 
for  Lucie,  his  renunciation  of  his  social  place,  though  by 
no  means  new  to  his  own  mind,  had  been  hurried  and  in- 
complete. He  knew  that  he  ought  to  have  sys’^ematically 
worked  it  out  and  supervised  it,  and  that  he  had  meant  to 
do  it^  and  that  it  had  never  been  done. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


229 


The  happiness  of  his  own  chosen  English  home,  the  ne- 
cessity of  being  always  actively  employed,  the  swift 
changes  and  troubles  of  the  time  which  had  followed  on 
one  another  so  fast,  that  the  events  of  this  week  annihil- 
ated the  immature  plans  of  last  week,  and  the  events  of 
the  week  following  made  all  new  again;  he  knew  very 
well,  that  to  the  force  of  these  circumstances  he  had 
yielded: — not  without  disquiet,  but  still  without  continu- 
ous and  accumulating  resistance.  That  he  had  watched 
the  times  for  a time  of  action,  and  that  they  had  shifted 
and  struggled  until  the  time  had  gone  by,  and  the  nobility 
were  trooping  from  France  by  every  highway  and  byway, 
and  their  property  was  in  course  of  confiscation  and  de- 
struction, and  their  very  names  were  blotting  out,  was  as 
well  known  to  himself  as  it  could  be  to  any  new  authority 
in  France  that  might  impeach  him  for  it. 

' But,  he  had  oppressed  no  man,  he  had  imprisoned  no 
man;  he  was  so  far  from  having  harshly  exacted  payment 
of  his  dues,  that  he  had  relinquished  them  of  his  own  will, 
j thrown  himself  on  a world  with  no  favour  in  it,  won  his 
own  private  place  there,  and  earned  his  own  bread.  Mon- 
sieur Gabelle  had  held  the  impoverished  and  involved 
estate  on  written  instructions,  to  spare  the  people,  to  give 
them  what  little  there  was  to  give — such  fuel  as  the  heavy 
creditors  would  let  them  have  in  the  winter,  and  such  prod- 
uce as  could  be  saved  from  the  same  grip  in  the  summer — 
and  no  doubt  he  had  put  the  fact  in  plea  and  proof,  for  his 
own  safety,  so  that  it  could  not  but  appear  now.’’ 

This  favoured  the  desperate  resolution  Charles  Darnay 
had  begun  to  make,  that  he  would  go  to  Paris. 

Yes.  Like  the  mariner  in  the  old  story,  the  winds  and 
streams  had  driven  him  within  the  influence  of  the  Load- 
stone Rock,  and  it  was  drawing  him  to  itself,  and  he  must 
go.  Everything  that  arose  before  his  mind  drifted  him  on, 
faster  and  faster,  more  and  more  steadily,  to  the  terrible 
attraction.  His  latent  uneasiness  had  been,  that  bad  aims 
were  being  worked  out  in  his  own  unhappy  land  by  bad  in- 
struments, and  that  he  who  could  not  fail  to  know  that  he 
was  better  than  they,  was  not  there,  trying  to  do  some- 
thing to  stay  bloodshed,  and  assert  the  claims  of  mercy 
and  humanity.  With  this  uneasiness  half  stifled,  and  half 
reproaching  him,  he  had  been  brought  to  the  pointed  com- 
parison of  himself  with  the  brave  old  gentleman  in  whom 


230 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


duty  was  so  strong;  upon  that  comparison  (injurious  t( 
himself)  had  instantly  followed  the  sneers  of  Monseigneur 
which  had  stung  him  bitterly,  and  those  of  Stryver,  whicl 
above  all  were  coarse  and  galling,  for  old  reasons.  Upoi 
those,  had  followed  Gabelle’s  letter;  the  appeal  of  an  in 
nocent  prisoner,  in  danger  of  death,  to  his  justice,  honour 
and  good  name. 

His  resolution  was  made.  He  must  go  to  Paris. 

Yes.  The  Loadstone  Rock  was  drawing  him,  and  h( 
must  sail  on,  until  he  struck.  He  knew  of  no  rock;  hf 
saw  hardly  any  danger.  The  intention  with  which  he  hac 
done  what  he  had  done,  even  although  he  had  left  it  in- 
complete, presented  it  before  him  in  an  aspect  that  would 
be  gratefully  acknowledged  in  France  on  his  presenting 
himself  to  assert  it.  Then,  that  glorious  vision  of  doing 
good,  which  is  so  often  the  sanguine  mirage  of  so  manji 
good  minds,  arose  before  him,  and  he  even  saw  himself  in 
the  illusion  with  some  influence  to  guide  this  raging  Revo- 
lution that  was  running  so  fearfully  wild. 

As  he  walked  to  and  fro  with  his  resolution  made,  he 
considered  that  neither  Lucie  nor  her  father  must  know  of 
it  until  he  was  gone.  Lucie  should  be  spared  the  pain  of 
separation;  and  her  father,  always  reluctant  to  turn  his 
thoughts  towards  the  dangerous  ground  of  old,  should  come 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  step,  as  a step  taken,  and  not  in 
the  balance  of  suspense  and  doubt.  How  much  of  the  in- 
completeness of  his  situation  was  referable  to  her  father,i 
through  the  painful  anxiety  to  avi  id  reviving  old  associa- 
tions of  France  in  his  mind,  he  did  uot  discuss  with  him- 
self. But,  that  circumstance  too,  ’ had  its  influence  in 
his  course. 

He  walked  to  and  fro,  with  thoughts  very  busy,  until  it 
was  time  to  return  to  Tellson’s  and  •'  .^ve  of  Mr.  Lorry. 
As  soon  as  he  arrived  in  Paris  he  would  present  himself  to 
this  old  friend,  but  he  must  say  nothing  of  his  intention  now. 

A carriage  with  post-horses  was  ready  at  the  Bank  door, 
and  Jerry  was  booted  and  equipped. 

“ I have  delivered  that  letter,  ” said  Charles  Harnay  to 
Mr.  Lorry.  “I  would  not  consent  to  your  being  charged 
with  any  written  answer,  but  perhaps  you  will  take  a 
verbal  one?”  i 

“That  I will,  and  readily,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  “if  it  is  not| 
dangerous.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


231 


^‘Not  at  all.  Though  it  is  to  a prisoner  in  the  Abbaye.” 

‘^What  is  his  name? said  Mr.  Lorry,  with  his  open 
30cket-book  in  his  hand. 

‘^Gabelle.’^ 

Gabelh  And  what  is  the  message  to  the  unfortunate 
jrabelle  in  prison? 

“ Simply,  ^ that  he  has  received  the  letter,  and  will 
}ome.’  ” 

Anj  time  mentioned?  ” 

‘^He  will  start  upon  his  journey  to-morrow  night.” 

‘‘Any  person  mentioned?  ” 

“^s"o.” 

He  helped  Mr.  Lorry  to  wrap  himself  in  a number  of 
joats  and  cloaks,  and  went  out  with  him  from  the  warm 
itmosphere  of  the  old  Bank,  into  the  misty  air  of  Fleet- 
;treet.  “My  love  to  Lucie,  and  to  little  Lucie,”  said  Mr. 
[jorry  at  parting,  “and  take  precious  care  of  them  till  I 
)ome  back.”  Charles  Darnay  shook  his  head  and  doubt- 
:ully  smiled,  as  the  carriage  rolled  away. 

That  night — it  was  the  fourteenth  of  August — he  sat  up 
iate,  and  wrote  two  fervent  letters;  one  was  to  Lucie,  ex- 
daining  the  strong  obligation  he  was  under  to  go  to  Paris, 
ind  showing  her,  at  length,  the  reasons  that  he  had,  for 
heling  confident  that  he  could  become  involved  in  no  per- 
;onal  danger  there;  the  other  was  to  the  Doctor,  confiding 
jucie  and  their  dear  child  to  his  care,  and  dwelling  on  the 
^ame  topics  with  the  strongest  assurances.  To  both,  he 
Vrote  that  he  would  des^mtch  letters  in  proof  of  his  safety, 
mmediately  after  l^is  m^rival. 

It  was  a hard  day^^at  day  of  being  among  them,  with 
he  first  reservation  bi  their  joint  lives  on  his  mind.  It 
7as  a hard  matter  to  preserve  the  innocent  deceit  of  which 
hey  were  profoundly  .unsuspicious.  But,  an  affectionate 
glance  at  his  wife,  so  happy  and  busy,  made  him  resolute 
lot  to  tell  her  what  impended  (he  had  been  half  moved  to 
lO  it,  so  strange  it  was  to  him  to  act  in  anything  without 
ler  quiet  aid),  and  the  day  passed  quickly.  Early  in  the 
. veniiig  he  embraced  her,  and  her  scarcely  less  dear  name- 
ake,  pretending  that  he  would  return  by-and-bye  (an  im- 
ginary  engagement  took  him  out,  and  he  had  secreted  a 
alise  of  clothes  ready),  and  so  he  emerged  into  the  heavy 
list  of  the  heavy  streets,  with  a heavier  heart. 

The  unseen  force  was  drawing  him  fast  to  itself,  now. 


232 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


and  all  the  tides  and  winds  were  setting  straight  and 
strong  towards  it.  He  left  his  two  letters  with  a trusty 
porter,  to  be  delivered  half  an  hour  before  midnight,  and 
no  sooner;  took  horse  for  Hover;  and  began  his  journey. 
^^For  the  love  of  Heaven,  of  justice,  of  generosity,  of  the 
honour  of  your  noble  name!  was  the  poor  prisoner’s  cry 
with  which  he  strengthened  his  sinking  heart,  as  he  left 
all  that  was  dear  on  earth  behind  him,  and  floated  away 
for  the  Loadstone  Rock. 


THE  END  OF  THE  SECOND  BOOK. 


BOOK  THE  THIRD.— THE  TRACK  OF  A 
STORM. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  SECRET. 

The  traveller  fared  slowly  on  his  way,  who  fared 
, towards  Paris  from  England  in  the  autumn  of  the  year,  one 
thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety-two.  More  than  enough 
of  bad  roads,  bad  equipages,  and  bad  horses,  he  would 
' have  encountered  to  delay  him,  though  the  fallen  and  un- 
' fortunate  King  of  France  had  been  upon  his  throne  in  all 
his  glory;  but,  the  changed  times  were  fraught  with  other 
obstacles  than  these.  Every  town-gate  and  village  taxing- 
house  had  its  band  of  citizen-patriots,  with  their  national 
muskets  in  a most  explosive  state  of  readiness,  who  stopped 
all  comers  and  goers,  cross-questioned  them,  inspected 
their  papers,  looked  for  their  names  in  li'sts  of  their  own, 
turned  them  back,  or  sent  them  on,  or  stopped  them  and 
laid  them  in  hold,  as  their  capricious  judgment  or  fancy 
deemed  best  for  the  dawning  Republic  One  and  Indivisible, 
of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death. 

A very  few  French  leagues  of  his  journey  were  accom- 
plished, when  Charles  Darnay  began  to  perceive  that  for 
him  along  these  country  roads  there  was  no  hope  of  return 
until  he  should  have  been  declared  a good  citizen  at  Paris. 
Whatever  might  befall  now,  he  must  on  to  his  journey^s 
end.  Not  a mean  village  closed  upon  him,  not  a common 
I barrier  dropped  across  the  road  behind  him,  but  he  knew  it 
’ to  be  another  iron  door  in  the  series  that  was  barred  be- 
tween him  and  England.  The  universal  watchfulness  so 
encompassed  him,  that  if  he  had  been  taken  in  a net,  or 
! were  being  forwarded  to  his  destination  in  a cage,  he  could 
not  have  felt  his  freedom  more  completely  gone. 


234 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


This  universal  watchfulness  not  only  stopped  him  on  the 
highway  twenty  times  in  a stage,  but  retarded  his  progress 
twenty  times  in  a day,  by  riding  after  him  and  taking  him 
back,  riding  before  him  and  stopping  him  by  anticipation, 
riding  with  him  and  keeping  him  in  charge.  He  had  been 
days  upon  his  journey  in  France  alone,  when  he  went  to 
bed  tired  out,  in  a little  town  on  the  high  road,  still  a long 
way  from  Paris. 

Nothing  but  the  production  of  the  afflicted  Gabelle’s  let- 
ter from  his  prison  of  the  Abbaye  would  have  got  him  on 
so  far.  His  difficulty  at  the  guard-house  in  this  small 
place  had  been  such,  that  he  felt  his  journey  to  have  come 
to  a crisis.  And  he  was,  therefore,  as  little  surprised  as  a 
man  could  be,  to  find  himself  awakened  at  the  small  inn  to 
which  he  had  been  remitted  until  morning,  in  the  middle 
of  the  night. 

Awakened  by  a timid  local  functionary  and  three  armed 
patriots  in  rough  red  caps  and  with  pipes  in  their  mouths, 
who  sat  down  on  the  bed. 

“Emigrant,”  said  the  functionary,  “I  am  going  to  send 
you  on  to  Paris,  under  an  escort.” 

“Citizen,  I desire  nothing  more  than  to  get  to  Pans, 
though  I could  dispense  with  the  escort. 

Silence ! growled  a red-cap,  striking  at  the  coverlet 
with  the  butt-end  of  his  musket.  “Peace,  aristocrat!” 

“ It  is  as  the  good  patriot  says,”  observed  the  timid  func- 
tionary. “ You  are  an  aristocrat,  and  must  have  an  escort 
— and  must  pay  for  it.” 

“I  have  no  choice,”  said  Charles  Darnay. 

“ Choice ! Listen  to  him  I ” cried  the  same  scowling  red- 
cap. “ As  if  it  was  not  a favour  to  be  protected  from  the 

lamp-iron ! ” _ „ , j iu 

“ It  is  always  as  the  good  patriot  says,”  observed  the 

functionary.  “ Rise  and  dress  yourself,  emigrant.” 

Darnay  complied,  and  was  taken  back  to  the  guard- 
house, where  other  patriots  in  rough  red  caps  were  smok- 
ing, drinking,  and  sleeping,  by  a watch-fire.  Here  he  paid 
a heavy  price  for  his  escort,  and  hence  he  started  with  it 
on  the  wet,  wet  roads  at  three  o’clock  in  the  morning. 

The  escort  were  two  mounted  patriots  in  red  caps  and 
tricoloured  cockades,  armed  with  national  muskets  and 
sabres,  who  rode  one  on  either  side  of  him. 

The  escorted  governed  his  own  horse,  but  a loose  line 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


235 


was  attached  to  his  bridle,  the  end  of  which  one  of  the  pa- 
triots kept  girded  round  his  wrist.  In  this  state  they  set 
forth  with  the  sharp  rain  driving  in  their  faces : clattering 
at  a heavy  dragoon  trot  over  the  uneven  town  pavement, 
and  out  upon  the  mire-deep  roads.  In  this  state  they  tra- 
versed^ without  change,  except  of  horses  and  pace,  all 
the  mire-deep  leagues  that  lay  between  them  and  the 
capital. 

They  travelled  in  the  night,  halting  an  hour  or  two  after 
daybreak,  and  lying  by  until  the  twilight  fell.  The  escort 
were  so  wretchedly  clothed,  that  they  twisted  straw  round 
their  bare  legs,  and  thatched  their  ragged  shoulders  to 
keep  the  wet  off.  Apart  from  the  personal  discomfort  of 
being  so  attended,  and  apart  from  such  considerations  of 
present  danger  as  arose  from  one  of  the  patriots  being 
chronically  drunk,  and  carrying  his  musket  very  recklessly, 
Charles  Darnay  did  not  allow  the  restraint  that  was  laid 
upon  him  to  awaken  any  serious  fears  in  his  breast;  for, 
he  reasoned  with  himself  that  it  could  have  no  reference  to 
the  merits  of  an  individual  case  that  was  not  yet  stated, 
and  of  representations,  confirmable  by  the  prisoner  in  the 
Abbaye,  that  were  not  yet  made. 

But  when  they  came  to  the  town  of  Beauvais — which 
they  did  at  eventide,  when  the  streets  were  filled  with 
people— he  could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  the  aspect 
of  affairs  was  very  alarming.  An  ominous  crowd  gathered 
to  see  him  dismount  at  the  posting-yard,  and  many  voices 
called  out  loudly,  ''  Down  with  the  emigrant ! 

He  stopped  in  the  act  of  swinging  himself  out  of  his 
saddle,  and,  resuming  it  as  his  safest  place,  said : 

Emigrant,  my  friends ! Do  you  not  see  me  here,  in 
France,  of  my  own  will?  ” 

You  are  a cursed  emigrant,’^  cried  a farrier,  making  at 
im  in  a furious  manner  through  the  press,  hammer  in 
hand;  ^^and  you  are  a cursed  aristocrat! 

The  postmaster  interposed  himself  between  this  man  and 
, the  rider’s  bridle  (at  which  he  was  evidently  making),  and 
soothingly  said,  ‘^Let  him  be;  let  him  be!  He  will  be 
judged  at  Paris.” 

« repeated  the  farrier,  swinging  his  hammer. 

Ay!  and  condemned  as  a traitor.”  At  this  the  crowd 
roared  approval. 

^ Checking  the  postmaster,  who  was  for  turning  his  horse’s 


230 


A.  TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


head  to  the  yard  (the  drunken  patriot  sat  composedly  in 
his  saddle  looking  on,  with  the  line  round  his  wrist),  Dar- 
nay  said,  as  soon  as  he  could  make  his  voice  heard : 

“ Friends,  you  deceive  yourselves,  or  you  are  deceived. 

I am  not  a traitor.  ” 

“ He  lies ! ” cried  the  smith.  “ He  is  a traitor  since  the 
decree.  His  life  is  forfeit  to  the  people.  His  cursed  life 
is  not  his  own ! ” 

At  the  instant  when  Camay  saw  a rush  in  the  eyes  of 
the  crowd,  which  another  instant  would  have  brought  upon 
him,  the  postmaster  turned  his  horse  into  the  yard,  the 
escort  rode  in  close  upon  his  horse’s  flanks,  and  the  post- 
master shut  and  barred  the  crazy  double  gates.  The  far- 
rier struck  a blow  upon  them  with  his  hammer,  and  the 
crowd  groaned;  but,  no  more  was  done. 

“ What  is  this  decree  that  the  smith  spoke  of?  ” Darnay 
asked  the  postmaster,  when  he  had  than  <.  d him,  and  stood 
beside  him  in  the  yard. 

“Truly,  a decree  for  selling  the  property  of  emigrants.” 
“ When  passed?  ” 

“ On  the  fourteenth.  ” 

“ The  day  I left  England ! ” 

“ Everybody  says  it  is  but  one  of  several,  and  that  there 
will  be  others — if  there  are  not  already— banishing  all 
emigrants,  and  condemning  all  to  death  who  return.  That 
is  what  he  meant  when  he  said  your  life  was  not  your 
own.” 

“ But  there  are  no  such  decrees  yet?  ” 

“ What  do  I know ! ” said  the  postmaster,  shrugging  his 
shoulders;  “there  may  be,  or  there  will  be.  It  is  all  the 
same.  What  would  you  have?  ” 

They  rested  on  some  straw  in  a loft  until  the  middle  of 
the  night,  and  then  rode  forward  again  when  all  the  town 
was  asleep.  Among  the  many  wild  changes  observable  on 
familiar  things  which  made  this  wild  ride  unreal,  not  the 
least  was  the  seeming  rarity  of  sleep.  After  long  and 
lonely  spurring  over  dreary  roads,  they  would  come  to  a 
cluster  of  poor  cottages,  not  steeped  in  darkness,  but  all 
glittering  with  lights,  and  would  find  the  people,  in  a 
ghostly  manner  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  circling  hand  in 
hand  round  a shrivelled  tree  of  Liberty,  or  all  drawn  up 
together  singing  a Liberty  song.  Happily,  however,  there 
was  sleep  in  Beauvais  that  night  to  help  them  out  of  it. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


237 


and  they  passed  on  once  more  into  solitude  and  loneliness : 
jingling  through  the  untimely  cold  and  wet,  among  impov- 
erished fields  that  had  yielded  no  fruits  of  the  earth  that 
year,  diversified  by  the  blackened  remains  of  burnt  houses, 
and  by  the  sudden  emergence  from  ambuscade,  and  sharp 
reining  up  across  their  way,  of  patriot  patrols  on  the  watch 
on  all  the  roads. 

Daylight  at  last  found  them  before  the  wall  of  Paris. 
The  barrier  was  closed  and  strongly  guarded  when  they 
rode  up  to  it. 

Where  are  the  papers  of  this  prisoner?  ” demanded  a 
resolute-looking  man  in  authority,  who  was  summoned  out 
by  the  guard. 

Naturally  struck  by  the  disagreeable  word,  Charles  Dar- 
nay  requested  the  speaker  to  take  notice  that  he  was  a free 
traveller  and  French  citizen,  in  charge  of  an  escort  which 
the  disturbed  state  of  the  country  had  imposed  upon  him, 
and  which  he  had  paid  for. 

Where,’’  repeated  the  same  personage,  without  taking 
any  heed  of  him  whatever,  are  the  papers  of  this  pris- 
oner? ” 

The  drunken  patriot  had  them  in  his  cap,  and  produced 
them.  Casting  his  eyes  over  Gabelle’s  letter,  the  same 
personage  in  authority  showed  some  disorder  and  surprise, 
and  looked  at  Darnay  with  a close  attention. 

He  left  escort  and  escorted  without  saying  a word,  how- 
ever, and  went  into  the  guard-room;  meanwhile,  they  sat 
upon  their  horses  outside  the  gate.  Looking  about  him 
while  in  this  state  of  suspense,  Charles  Darnay  observed 
that  the  gate  was  held  by  a mixed  guard  of  soldiers  and 
patriots,  the  latter  far  outnumbering  the  former;  and  that 
while  ingress  into  the  city  for  peasants’  carts  bringing  in 
supplies,  and  for  similar  traffic  and  traffickers,  was  easy 
enough,  egress,  even  for  the  homeliest  people,  was  very 
difficult.  A numerous  medley  of  men  and  women,  not  to 
mention  beasts  and  vehicles  of  various  sorts,  was  waiting 
to  issue  forth;  but,  the  previous  identification  was  so  strict, 
that  they  filtered  through  the  barrier  very  slowly.  Some 
of  these  people  knew  their  turn  for  examination  to  be  so 
far  off,  that  they  lay  down  on  the  ground  to  sleep  or 
smoke,  while  others  talked  together,  or  loitered  about. 
The  red  cap  and  tricolour  cockade  were  universal,  both 
among  men  and  women. 


238 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


When  he  had  sat  in  his  saddle  some  half-hour,  taking 
note  of  these  things,  Darnay  found  himself  confronted  by 
the  same  man  in  authority,  who  directed  the  guard  to  open 
the  barrier.  Then  he  delivered  to  the  escort,  drunk  and 
sober,  a receipt  for  the  escorted,  and  requested  him  to  dis- 
mount. He  did  so,  and  the  two  patriots,  leading  his  tired 
horse,  turned  and  rode  away  without  entering  the  city. 

He  accompanied  his  conductor  into  a guard-room,  smell- 
ing of  common  wine  and  tobacco,  where  certain  soldiers 
and  patriots,  asleep  and  awake,  drunk  and  sober,  and  in 
various  neutral  states  between  sleeping  and  waking,  drunk- 
enness and  sobriety,  were  standing  and  lying  about,  ihe 
light  in  the  guard-house,  half  derived  from  the  waning  oil- 
lamps  of  the  night,  and  half  from  the  overcast  day,  was  in 
a correspondingly  uncertain  condition.  Some  registers  were 
lying  open  on  a desk,  and  an  officer  of  a coarse,  dark 
aspect,  presided  over  these. 

“Citizen  Defarge,”  said  he  to  Darnay’s  conductor,  as  he 
took  a slip  of  paper  to  write  on.  “ Is  this  the  emigrant 
Evremonde?  ” 

“This  is  the  man.” 

“ Your  age,  Evremonde?  ” 

“ Thirty-seven.” 

“ Married,  Evremonde?  ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Where  married?  ” 

“In  England.”  j o» 

“ Without  doubt.  Where  is  your  wife,  Evremonde  i* 

“In  England.”  ^ j ..  4.1. 

“ Without  doubt.  You  are  consigned,  Evremonde,  to  the 

prison  of  La  Force.”  1.4.1 

“ Just  Heaven ! ” exclaimed  Darnay.  Under  what  law, 

and  for  what  offence?  ” 

The  officer  looked  up  from  his  slip  of  paper  for  a mo- 

“ We  have  new  laws,  Evremonde,  and  new  offences, 
since  you  were  here.^^  He  said  it  with  a hard  smile,  and 
went  on  writing. 

“ I entreat  you  to  observe  that  I have  come  here  volun- 
tarily, in  response  to  that  written  appeal  of  a fellow-coun- 
tryman which  lies  before  you.  I demand  no  more  than 
the  opportunity  to  do  so  without  delay.  Is  not  that  my 
right?  ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


239 


''Emigrants  have  no  rights,  Evremonde/'  was  the  stolid 
reply.  The  officer  wrote  until  he  had  hiiished,  read  over 
to  himself  what  he  had  written,  sanded  it,  and  handed  it 
to  Defarge,  with  the  words  "In  secret.” 

Defarge  motioned  with  the  paper  to  the  prisoner  that  he 
must  accompany  him.  The  prisoner  obeyed,  and  a guard 
of  two  armed  patriots  attended  them. 

"Is  it  you,”  said  Defarge,  in  a low  voice,  as  they  went 
down  the  guard-house  steps  and  turned  into  Paris,  " who 
married  the  daughter  of  Doctor  Manette,  once  a prisoner 
in  the  Bastille  that  is  no  more?  ” 

" Yes,”  replied  Darnay,  looking  at  him  with  surprise. 

" My  name  is  Defarge,  and  I keep  a wine-shop  in  the 
Quarter  Saint  Antoine.  Possibly  you  have  heard  of  me.” 

" My  wife  came  to  your  house  to  reclaim  her  father? 
Yes ! ” 

The  word  " wife  ” seemed  to  serve  as  a gloomy  reminder 
to  Defarge,  to  say  with  sudden  impatience,  "In  the  name 
of  that  sharp  female  newly-born,  and  called  La  Guillotine, 
why  did  you  come  to  France?  ” 

''  You  heard  me  say  why,  a minute  ago.  Do  you  not 
believe  it  is  the  truth?  ” 

"A  bad  truth  for  you,”  said  Defarge,  speaking  with 
knitted  brows,  and  looking  straight  before  him. 

"Indeed  I am  lost  here.  All  here  is  so  unprecedented, 
so  changed,  so  sudden  and  unfair,  that  I am  absolutely 
lost.  Will  you  render  me  a little  help?  ” 

"FTone.”  Defarge  spoke,  always  looking  straight  before 
him. 

"Will  you  answer  me  a single  question?  ” 

"Perhaps.  According  to  its  nature.  You  can  sav  what 
It  is.” 

" In  this  prison  that  I am  going  to  so  unjustly,  shall  I 
have  some  free  communication  with  the  world  outside?  ” 

" You  will  see.” 

"I  am  not  to  be  buried  there,  prejudged,  and  without 
any  means  of  presenting  my  case?  ” 

You  will  see.  But,  what  then?  Other  people  have 
been  similarly  buried  in  worse  prisons,  before  now.” 

"But  never  by  me,  Citizen  Defarge.” 

Defarge  glanced  darkly  at  him  for  answer,  and  walked 
steady  and  set  silence.  The  deeper  he  sank  into 
this  silence,  the  fainter  hope  there  was — or  so  Darnay 


240 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


thought — of  his  softening  in  any  slight  degree.  He,  there- 
fore, made  haste  to  say : 

It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  me  (you  know.  Citi- 
zen, even  better  than  I,  of  how  much  importance),  that  I 
should  be  able  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Lorry  of  Tellson’s 
Bank,  an  English  gentleman  who  is  now  in  Paris,  the  sim- 
ple fact,  without  comment,  that  I have  been  thrown  into 
the  prison  of  La  Force.  Will  you  cause  that  to  be  done 
for  me?  ” 

I will  do,’^  Defarge  doggedly  rejoined,  nothing  for 
you.  My  duty  is  to  my  country  and  the  People.  I am 
the  sworn  servant  of  both,  against  you.  I will  do  nothing 
for  you.’’ 

Charles  Darnay  felt  it  hopeless  to  entreat  him  further, 
and  his  pride  was  touched  besides.  As  they  walked  on  in 
silence,  he  could  not  but  see  how  used  the  people  were  to 
the  spectacle  of  prisoners  passing  along  the  streets.  The 
very  children  scarcely  noticed  him.  A few  passers  turned 
their  heads,  and  a few  shook  their  fingers  at  him  as  an 
aristocrat;  otherwise,  that  a man  in  good  clothes  should  be 
going  to  prison,  was  no  more  remarkable  than  that  a la- 
bourer in  working  clothes  should  be  going  to  work.  In 
one  narrow,  dark,  and  dirty  street  through  which  they 
passed,  an  excited  orator,  mounted  on  a stool,  was  address- 
ing an  excited  audience  on  the  crimes  against  the  people, 
of  the  king  and  the  royal  family.  The  few  words  that  he 
caught  from  this  man’s  lips,  first  made  it  known  to  Charles 
Darnay  that  the  king  was  in  prison,  and  that  the  foreign 
ambassadors  had  one  and  all  left  Paris.  On  the  road  (ex- 
cept at  Beauvais)  he  had  heard  absolutely  nothing.  The 
escort  and  the  universal  watchfulness  had  completely  iso- 
lated him. 

That  he  had  fallen  among  far  greater  dangers  than  those 
which  had  developed  themselves  when  he  left  England, 
he  of  course  knew  now.  That  perils  had  thickened  about 
him  fast,  and  might  thicken  faster  and  faster  yet,  he  of 
course  knew  now.  He  could  not  but  admit  to  himself  that 
he  might  not  have  made  this  journey,  if  he  could  have 
foreseen  the  events  of  a few  days.  And  yet  his  misgivings 
were  not  so  dark  as,  imagined  by  the  light  of  this  later 
time,  they  would  appear.  Troubled  as  the  future  was,  it 
was  the  unknown  future,  and  in  its  obscurity  there  was 
ignorant  hope.  The  horrible  massacre,  days  and  nights 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


241 


ug,  wliich,  within  a few  rounds  of  the  clock,  was  to  set 
great  mark  of  blood  upon  the  blessed  garnering  time  of 
irvest,  was  as  far  out  of  his  knowledge  as  if  it  had  been 
hundred  thousand  years  away.  The  sharp  female 
iwly-born,  and  called  La  Guillotine,’^  was  hardly  known 
him,  or  to  the  generality  of  people,  by  name.  The 
ightful  deeds  that  were  to  be  soon  done,  were  probably 
limagined  at  that  time  in  the  brains  of  the  doers.  How 
uld  they  have  a place  in  the  shadowy  conceptions  of  a 
ntle  mind? 

Of  unjust  treatment  in  detention  and  hardship,  and  in 
uel  separation  from  his  wife  and  child,  he  foreshadowed 
e likelihood,  or  the  certainty;  but,  beyond  this,  he 
' eaded  nothing  distinctly.  With  this  on  his  mind,  which 
IS  enough  to  carry  into  a dreary  prison  courtyard,  he 
rived  at  the  prison  of  La  Force. 

A man  with  a bloated  face  opened  the  strong  wicket,  to 
iiiom  Defarge  presented  ‘^The  Emigrant  Evremonde.” 

“ What  the  Devil ! How  many  more  of  them ! ” ex- 
limed  the  man  with  the  bloated  face. 

‘ Defarge  took  his  receipt  without  noticing  the  exclamation, 
d withdrew,  with  his  two  fellow-patriots. 

‘‘  What  the  Devil,  I say  again ! ” exclaimed  the  gaoler, 
Et  with  his  wife.  How  many  more ! ” 

The  gaoler’s  wife,  being  provided  with  no  answer  to  the 
.estion,  merely  replied,  ^‘  One  must  have  patience,  my 
ar ! ” Three  turnkeys  who  entered  responsive  to  a bell 
e rang,  echoed  the  sentiment,  and  one  added,  ^^Eor  the 
ve  of  Liberty;  ” which  sounded  in  that  place  like  an  in- 
propriate  conclusion. 

The  prison  of  La  Force  was  a gloomy  prison,  dark  and 
thy,  and  with  a horrible  smell  of  foul  sleep  in  it.  Ex- 
lordinary  how  soon  the  noisome  flavour  of  imprisoned 
iep,  becomes  manifest  in  all  such  places  that  are  ill  cared 
c! 

‘Hn  secret,  too,”  grumbled  the  gaoler,  looking  at  the 
itten  paper.  As  if  I was  not  already  full  to  bursting ! ” 
He  stuck  the  paper  on  a file,  in  an  ill-humour,  and 
larles  Darnay  awaited  his  further  pleasure  for  half  an 
ur : sometimes,  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the  strong  arched 
nn:  sometimes,  resting  on  a stone  seat:  in  either  case 
tained  to  be  imprinted  on  the  memory  of  the  chief  and 
J subordinates. 

16 


242 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


“ Come ! ” said  tlie  chief,  at  length  taking  up  his  keys, 
“come  with  me,  emigrant.” 

Through  the  dismal  prison  twilight,  his  new  charge  ac-  j 
companied  him  by  corridor  and  staircase,  many  doors  clang-  i 
ing  and  locking  behind  them,  until  they  came  into  a large,  1 
low,  vaulted  chamber,  crowded  with  prisoners  of  both  j 
sexes.  The  women  were  seated  at  a long  table,  reading  ! 
and  writing,  knitting,  sewing,  and  embroidering;  the  men  ! 
were  for  the  most  part  standing  behind  their  chairs,  or  lin- 1 
gering  up  and  down  the  room.  | 

In  the  instinctive  association  of  prisoners  with  shameful  i 
crime  and  disgrace,  the  new  comer  recoiled  from  this  com- 
pany. But  the  crowning  unreality  of  his  long  unreal  ride, 
was,  their  all  at  once  rising  to  receive  him,  with  every  re- ' 
finement  of  manner  known  to  the  time,  and  with  all  the  | 
engaging  graces  and  courtesies  of  life.  ! 

So  strangely  clouded  were  these  refinements  *by  the  [ 
prison  manners  and  gloom,  so  spectral  did  they  become  in  | 
the  inappropriate  squalor  and  misery  through  which  they  I 
were  seen,  that  Charles  Darnay  seemed  to  stand  in  a com- 
pany of  the  dead.  Ghosts  all ! The  ghost  of  beauty,  the 
ghost  of  stateliness,  the  ghost  of  elegance,  the  ghost  of 
pride,  the  ghost  of  frivolity,  the  ghost  of  wit,  the  ghost  of 
youth,  the  ghost  of  age,  all  waiting  their  dismissal  from 
the  desolate  shore,  all  turning  on  him  eyes  that  were 
changed  by  the  death  they  had  died  in  coming  there. 

It  struck  him  motionless.  The  gaoler  standing  at  his. 
side,  and  the  other  gaolers  moving  about,  who  would  have 
been  well  enough  as  to  appearance  in  the  ordinary  exercise 
of  their  functions,  looked  so  extravagantly  coarse  contrasted 
with  sorrowing  mothers  and  blooming’  daughters  who  were 
tliere — with  the  apparitions  of  the  coquette,  the  young 
beauty,  and  the  mature  woman  delicately  bred — that  the 
inversion  of  all  experience  and  likelihood  which  the  scene 
of  shadows  presented,  was  heightened  to  its  utmost. 
Surely,  ghosts  all.  Surely,  the  long  unreal  ride  some 
progress  of  disease  that  had  brought  him  to  these  gloomy 
shades ! 

“ In  the  name  of  the  assembled  companions  in  misfor- 
tune,” said  a gentleman  of  courtly  appearance  and  address, 
coming  forward,  “ I have  the  honour  of  giving  you  welcome 
to  La  Force,  and  of  condoling  with  you  on  the  calamity 
that  has  brought  you  among  us.  May  it  soou  terminate 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


243 


ippily ! It  would  be  an  impertinence  elsewhere,  but  it  is 
)t  so  here,  to  ask  your  name  and  condition? 

[]  Charles  Darnay  roused  himself,  and  gave  the  required 
formation,  in  words  as  suitable  as  he  could  find. 

^‘But  I hope,’^  said  the  gentleman,  following  the  chief 
loler  with  his  eyes,  who  moved  across  the  room,  ^Hhatyou 
e not  in  secret?  ” 

do  not  understand  the  meaning  of  the  term,  but  I 
ive  heard  them  say  so.^^ 

; ^‘Ah,  what  a pity!  We  so  much  regret  it!  But  take 
•urage;  several  members  of  our  society  have  been  in  se- 
ct, at  first,  and  it  has  lasted  but  a short  time.”  Then  he 
ilded,  raising  his  voice,  I grieve  to  inform  the  society — 
secret.” 

There  was  a murmur  of  commiseration  as  Charles  Darnay 
^ossed  the  room  to  a grated  door  where  the  gaoler  awaited 
tm,  and  many  voices — among  which,  the  soft  and  compas- 
pnate  voices  of  women  were  conspicuous — gave  him  good 
dshes  and  encouragement.  He  turned  at  the  grated  door, 
j render  the  thanks  of  his  heart;  it  closed  under  the  gaol- 
’s hand;  and  the  appaTitions  vanished  from  his  sight  for 
^er. 

The  wicket  opened  on  a stone  staircase,  leading  upward, 
^hen  they  had  ascended  forty  steps  (the  prisoner  of  half 
i hour  already  counted  them),  the  gaoler  opened  a low 
ack  door,  and  they  passed  into  a solitary  cell.  It  struck 
•Id  and  damp,  but  was  not  dark. 

Yours,”  said  the  gaoler. 

A Why  am  I confined  alone?  ” 

“ How  do  I know ! ” 
j I can  buy  pen,  ink,  and  paper?  ” 

. Such  are  not  my  orders.  You  will  be  visited,  and  can 
|k  then.  At  present,  you  may  buy  your  food,  and  nothing 
ore.” 

There  were  in  the  cell,  a chair,  a table,  and  a straw  mat- 
^ess.  As  the  gaoler  made  a general  inspection  of  these 
ejects,  and  of  the  four  walls,  before  going  out,  a wander- 
g fancy  wandered  through  the  mind  of  the  prisoner  lean- 
g against  the  wall  opposite  to  him,  that  this  gaoler  was 
un wholesomely  bloated,  both  in  face  and  person,  as  to 
ok  like  a man  who  had  been  drowned  and  filled  with  wa- 
, r.  When  the  gaoler  was  gone,  he  thought  in  the  same 
andering  way,  ^‘How  am  I left,  as  if  I were  dead.” 


244 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES 


Stopping  then,  to  look  down  at  the  mattress,  he  turnec^ 
from  it  with  a sick  feeling,  and  thought,  “ And  here  in 
these  crawling  creatures  is  the  first  condition  of  the  bodjs 
after  death.” 

“ Five  paces  by  four  and  a half,  five  paces  by  four  and  8| 
half,  five  paces  by  four  and  a half.”  The  prisoner  walked 
to  and  fro  in  his  cell,  counting  its  measurement,  and  thci 
roar  of  the  city  arose  like  muffled  drums  with  a wild  swellj 
of  voices  added  to  them.  “ He  made  shoes,  he  made  shoes, i 
he  made  shoes.”  The  prisoner  counted  the  measurement 
again,  and  paced  faster,  to  draw  his  mind  with  him  froir 
that  latter  repetition.  “The  ghosts  that  vanished  wher 
the  wicket  closed.  There  was  one  among  them,  the  ap 
pearance  of  a lady  dressed  in  black,  who  was  leaning^  ii 
the  embrasure  of  a window,  and  she  had  a light  shining 
upon  her  golden  hair,  and  she  looked  like  * * * * Let  U! 
ride  on  again,  for  God’s  sake,  through  the  illuminated  vil 
lages  with  the  people  all  awake  t * * * * He  made  shoes 
he  made  shoes,  he  made  shoes.  * * * * Five  paces  b 
four  and  a half.”  With  such  scraps  tossing  and  rolling  up 
ward  from  the  depths  of  his  mind,  the  prisoner  walkec 
faster  and  faster,  obstinately  counting  and  counting;  anc 
the  roar  of  the  city  changed  to  this  extent — that  it  stil 
rolled  in  like  muffled  drums,  but  with  the  wail  of  voice 
that  he  knew,  in  the  swell  that  rose  above  them.  i 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  GRINDSTONE. 

Tbllsoit’s  Bank,  established  in  the  Saint  Germain  Qua; 
ter  of  Paris,  was  in  a wing  of  a large  house,  approache 
by  a courtyard  and  shut  off  from  the  street  by  a high  wa 
and  a strong  gate.  The  house  belonged  to  a great  noblt 
man  who  had  lived  in  it  until  he  made  a flight  from  tb 
troubles,  in  his  own  cook’s  dress,  and  got  across  the  border 
A mere  beast  of  the  chase  flying  from  hunters,  he  was  sti 
in  his  metempsychosis  no  other  than  the -same  Monseigneu. 
the  preparation  of  whose  chocolate  for  whose  lips  had  on< 
occupied  three  strong  men  besides  the  cook  in  question. 

Monseigneur  gone,  and  the  three  strong  men  absolvir 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


215 


emselves  from  the  sin  of  having  drawn  his  high  wages, 
^ being  more  than  ready  and  willing  to  cut  his  throat  on 
e altar  of  the  dawning  Republic  one  and  indivisible  of 
berty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  Monseigneur's 
»use  had  been  first  sequestrated,  and  then  confiscated. 
>r,  all  things  moved  so  fast,  and  decree  followed  decree 
th  that  fierce  precipitation,  that  now  upon  the  third 
ght  of  the  autumn  month  of  September,  patriot  emis- 
I des  of  the  law  were  in  possession  of  Monseigneur's  house, 
"d  had  marked  it  with  the  tricolour,  and  were  drinking 
rmdy  in  its  state  apartments. 

• A place  of  business  in  London  like  Tellson's  place  of 
ksiness  in  Paris,  would  soon  have  driven  the  House  out  of 
T mind  and  into  the  Gazette.  For,  what  would  staid 
itish  responsibility  and  respectability  have  said  to  orange- 
es  in  boxes  in  a Bank  courtyard,  and  even  to  a Cupid 
j3r  the  counter?  Yet  such  things  were.  Tellson's  had 
jitewaslied  the  Cupid,  but  he  was  still  to  be  seen  on  the 
ling,  in  the  coolest  linen,  aiming  (as  he  very  often  does) 
,moiiey  from  morning  to  night.  Bankruptcy  must  inevit- 
Jy  have  come  of  this  young  Pagan,  in  Lombard-street, 
aidon,  and  also  of  a curtained  alcove  in  the  rear  of  the 
inortal  boy,  and  also  of  a looking-glass  let  into  the  wall, 

1 also  of  clerks  not  at  all  old,  who  danced  in  public  on 
■ slightest  provocation.  Yet,  a French  Tellson's  could 
on  with  these  things  exceedingly  well,  and,  as  long  as 
times  held  together,  no  man  had  taken  fright  at  them, 

I drawn  out  his  money. 

Yhat  money  would  be  drawn  out  of  Tellson's  henceforth, 

I what  would  lie  there,  lost  and  forgotten;  what  plate 
I jewels  would  tarnish  in  Tellson's  hiding-places,  while 
depositors  rusted  in  prisons,  and  when  they  should 
^e  violently  perished;  how  many  accounts  with  Tellson's 
^r  to  be  balanced  in  this  world,  must  be  carried  over 
) the  next;  no  man  could  have  said,  that  night,  any 
than  Mr.  Jarvis  Lorry  could,  though  he  thought  heav- 
^ of  these  questions.  He  sat  by  a newly-lighted  wood 
: (the  blighted  and  unfruitful  year  was  prematurely 
T),  and  on  his  honest  and  courageous  face  there  was  a 
rpor  shade  than  the  pendent  lamp  could  throw,  or  any 
' |ct  in  the  room  distortedly  reflect— a shade  of  horror. 

Te  o(3cupied  rooms  in  the  Bank,  in  his  fidelity  to  the 
^ise  of  which  he  had  grown  to  be  a part,  like  strong 


246 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


root-ivy.  It  chanced  that  they  derived  a kind  of  security  i 
from  the  patriotic  occupation  of  the  main  building,  but  the! 
true-hearted  old  gentleman  never  calculated  about  that. 
All  such  circumstances  were  indifferent  to  him,  so  that  he 
did  his  duty.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  courtyard,  under 
a colonnade,  was  extensive  standing  for  carriages — where, 
indeed,  some  carriages  of  Monseigneur  yet  stood.  Against 
two  of  the  pillars  were  fastened  two  great  flaring  flam- 
beaux, and  in  the  light  of  these,  standing  out  in  the  open 
air,  was  a large  grindstone : a roughly  mounted  thing  whicli 
appeared  to  have  hurriedly  been  brought  there  from  some 
neighbouring  smithy,  or  other  workshop.  Eising  and  look- 
ing out  of  window  at  these  harmless  objects,  Mr.  Lorry 
shivered,  and  retired  to  his  seat  by  the  fire.  He  had 
opened,  not  only  the  glass  window,  but  the  lattice  blind 
outside  it,  and  he  had  closed  both  again,  and  he  shivered 
through  his  frame. 

From  the  streets  beyond  the  high  wall  and  a strong  gate, 
there  came  the  usual  night  hum  of  the  city,  with  now  and 
then  an  indescribable  ring  in  it,  weird  and  unearthly,  as  if 
some  unwonted  sounds  of  a terrible  nature  were  going  up 
to  Heaven.  | 

Thank  God,’’  said  Mr.  Lorry,  clasping  his  hands, 
^Hhat  no  one  near  and  dear  to  me  is  in  this  dreadful' 
town  to-night.  May  He  have  mercy  on  all  who  are  in 
danger ! ” 

Soon  afterwards,  the  bell  at  the  great  gate  sounded,  and 
he  thought,  ‘^They  have  come  back!”  and  sat  listening. 
But,  there  was  no  loud  irruption  into  the  courtyard,  as  he 
had  expected,  and  he  heard  the  gate  clash  again,  and  all 
was  quiet. 

The  nervousness  and  dre'ad  that  were  upon  him  inspired 
that  vague  uneasiness  respecting  the  Bank,  which  a great 
change  would  naturally  awaken,  with  such  feelings  roused. 
It  was  well  guarded,  and  he  got  up  to  go  among  the  trusty 
people  who  were  watching  it,  when  his  door  suddenly 
opened,  and  two  figures  rushed  in,  at  sight  of  which  he  fell 
back  in  amazement. 

Lucie  and  her  father ! Lucie  with  her  arms  stretched 
out  to  him,  and  with  that  old  look  of  earnestness  so  con- 
centrated and  intensified,  that  it  seemed  as  though  it  had 
been  stamped  upon  her  face  expressly  to  give  force  and 
power  to  it  in  this  one  passage  of  her  life. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


247 


What  is  this?  ” cried  Mr.  Lorry,  breathless  and  confused. 
“ What  is  the  matter?  Lucie ! Manette ! What  has  hap- 
pened? What  has  brought  you  here?  What  is  it?  ” 

With  the  look  fixed  upon  him,  in  her  paleness  and  wild- 
[fiess,  she  panted  out  in  his  arms,  imploringly,  my  dear 
friend ! My  husband ! 

Your  husband,  Lucie? 

What  of  Charles? 

‘‘Here.” 

“Here,  in  Paris?  ” 

“Has  been  here  some  days — three  or  four — I don’t  know 
aow  many — I can’t  collect  my  thoughts.  An  errand  of 
generosity  brought  him  here  unknown  to  us;  he  was  stopped 
it  the  barrier,  and  sent  to  prison.” 

, The  old  man  uttered  an  irrepressible  cry.  Almost  at  the 
jjame  moment,  the  bell  of  the  great  gate  rang  again,  and  a 
oud  noise  of  feet  and  voices  came  pouring  into  the  court- 
yard. 

I “ What  is  that  noise?  ” said  the  Doctor,  turning  towards 
^•;he  window. 

“Don’t  look!”  cried  Mr.  Lorry.  “Don’t  look  out!' 
Vlanette,  for  your  life,  don’t  touch  the  blind ! ” 

The  Doctor  turned,  with  his  hand  upon  the  fastening  of 
;he  window,  and  said,  with  a cool,  bold  smile : 

“ My  dear  friend,  I have  a charmed  life  in  this  city.  I 
lave  been  a Bastille  prisoner.  There  is  no  patriot  in  Paris 
—in  Paris?  In  France — who,  knowing  me  to  have  been  a 
)risoner  in  the  Bastille,  would  touch  me,  except  to  over- 
whelm me  with  embraces,  or  carry  me  in  triumph.  My 
)ld  pain  has  given  me  a power  that  has  brought  us  through 
he  barrier,  and  gained  us  news  of  Charles  there,  and 
)rought  us  here.  I knew  it  would  be  so;  I knew  I could 
^lelp  Charles  out  of  all  danger;  I told  Lucie  so. — What  is 
jhat  noise?  ” His  hand  was  again  upon  the  window. 

^ “Don’t  look!”  cried  Mr.  Lorry,  absolutely  desperate. 

‘ No,  Lucie,  my  dear,  nor  you ! ” He  got  his  arm  round 
ter,  and  held  her.  “ Don’t  be  so  terrified,  my  love.  I 
’ olemnly  swear  to  you  that  I know  of  no  harm  having  hap- 
pened to  Charles;  that  I had  no  suspicion  even  of  his  being 
n this  fatal  place.  What  prison  is  he  in?  ” 

“ La  Force ! 

“La  Force!  Lucie,  my  child,  if  ever  you  were  brave 


248 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


and  serviceable  in  your  life — and  you  were  always  both — 
you  will  compose  yourself  now,  to  do  exactly  as  I bid  you;, 
for  more  depends  upon  it  than  you  can  think,  or  I can  say. 
There  is  no  help  for  you  in  any  action  on  your  part  to- 
night; you  cannot  possibly  stir  out.  I say  this,  because 
what  I must  bid  you  to  do  for  Charles’s  sake,  is  the  hardest 
thing  to  do  of  all.  You  must  instantly  be  obedient,  still, 
and  quiet.  You  must  let  me  put  you  in  a room  at  the 
back  here.  You  must  leave  your  father  and  me  alone  for 
two  minutes,  and  as  there  are  Life  and  Death  in  the  world 
you  must  not  delay.” 

I will  be  submissive  to  you.  I see  in  your  face  that  you 
know  I can  do  nothing  else  than  this.  I know  you  are  true.” 

The  old  man  kissed  her,  and  hurried  her  into  his  room, 
and  turned  the  key;  then,  came  hurrying  back  to  the  Doc- 
tor, and  opened  the  window  and  partly  opened  the  blind, 
and  put  his  hand  upon  the  Doctor’s  arm,  and  looked  out 
with  him  into  the  courtyard. 

Looked  out  upon  a throng  of  men  and  women:  not 
enough  in  number,  or  near  enough,  to  fill  the  courtyard : 
not  more  than  forty  or  fifty  in  all.  The  people  in  posses- 
sion of  the  house  had  let  them  in  at  the  gate,  and  they  had 
rushed  in  to  work  at  the  grindstone;  it  had  evidently  been 
set  up  there  for  their  purpose,  as  in  a convenient  and  re- 
tired spot. 

But,  such  awful  workers,  and  such  awful  work ! 

The  grindstone  had  ,a  double  handle,  and,  turning  at  it 
madly  were  two  men,  whose  faces,  as  their  long  hail 
flapped  back  when  the  whirlings  of  the  grindstone  brought 
their  faces  up,  were  more  horrible  and  cruel  than  the 
visages  of  the  wildest  savages  in  their  most  barbarous  dis- 
guise. False  eyebrows  and  false  moustaches  were  stud 
upon  them,  and  their  hideous  countenances  were  all  blood} 
and  sweaty,  and  all  awry  with  howling,  and  all  staring  anc 
glaring  with  beastly  excitement  and  want  of  sleep. 
these  ruffians  turned  and  turned,  their  matted  locks  no^^ 
flung  forward  over  their  eyes,  now  flung  backward  ovei 
their  necks,  some  women  held  wine  to  their  mouths  tha" 
they  might  drink;  and  what  with  dropping  blood,  anc 
what  with  dropping  wine,  and  what  with  the  stream  ol 
sparks  struck  out  of  the  stone,  all  their  wicked  atmosphere 
seemed  gore  and  fire.  The  eye  could  not  detect  one  creat 
ure  ill  the  group  free  from  the  smear  of  blood.  Shoulder 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


249 


ing  one  another  to  get  next  at  the  sharpening-stone,  were 
men  stripped  to  the  waist,  with  the  stain  all  over  their 
limbs  and  bodies;  men  in  all  sorts  of  rags,  with  the  stain 
upon  those  rags;  men  devilishly  set  off  with  spoils  of 
women’s  lace  and  silk  and  ribbon,  with  the  stain  dyeing 
those  trifles  through  and  through.  Hatchets,  knives  bay- 
onets, swords,  all  brought  to  be  sharpened,  were  all  red 
with  It.  Some  of  the  hacked  swords  were  tied  to  the  wrists 
,.of  those  who  carried  them,  with  strips  of  linen  and  frag- 
ments of  dress : ligatures  various  in  kind,  but  all  deep  of 
the  one  colour.  And  as  the  frantic  wielders  of  these  weap- 
ons snatched  them  from  the  stream  of  sparks  and  tore  away 
: into  the  streets,  the  same  red  hue  was  red  in  their  frenzied 
-eyes;— eyes  which  any  unbrutalised  beholder  would  have 
given  twenty  years  of  life,  to  petrify  with  a well-directed 


1 All  this  was  seen  in  a moment,  as  the  vision  of  a drown- 
ing  man,  or  of  any  human  creature  at  any  very  great  pass 
^could  see  a world  if  it  were  there.  They  drew  back  from 
jthe  window,  and  the  Hocter  looked  for  explanation  in  his 
friend’s  ashy  face. 

“They  are,”  Mr.  Lorry  whispered  the  words,  glancing 
earfully  round  at  the  locked  room,  “ murdering  the  pris- 
oners. If  you  are  sure  of  what  you  say;  if  you  really  have 
the  power  you  think  you  have— as  I believe  you  have- 
make  yourself  known  to  these  devils,  and  get  taken  to  La 
orce.  It  may  be  too  late,  I don’t  know,  but  let  it  not  be 
I minute  later! 


Doctor  Manette  pressed  his  hand,  hastened  bareheaded 
lut  of  the  room,  and  was  in  the  courtyard  when  Mr.  Lorrv 
-egained  the  blind.  ^ 


His  streaming  white  hair,  his  remarkable  face,  and  the 
mpetuous  confldence  of  his  manner,  as  he  put  the  weapons 
iside  like  water,  carried  him  in  an  instant  to  the  heart  of 
-he  concourse  at  the  stone.  For  a few  moments  there  was 
•I  pause,  and  a hurry,  and  a murmur,  and  the  unintelligible 
ound  of  his  voice;  and  then  Mr.  Lorry  saw  him,  surrounded 
jy  all,  and  in  the  midst  of  a line  of  twenty  men  long,  all 
inked  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  hand  to  shoulder,  hurried 
ut  with  cries  of-“Live  the  Bastille  prisoner!  Help  for 
tie  Bastille  prisoner’s  kindred  in  La  Force ! Room  for  the 
•astille  prisoner  m front  there!  Save  the  prisoner  Evre- 
on  e at  La  Force!  ” and  a thousand  answering  shouts. 


250 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


He  closed  the  lattice  again  with  a fluttering  heart,  closed 
the  window  and  the  curtain,  hastened  to  Lucie,  and  told 
her  that  her  father  was  assisted  by  the  people,  and  gone  in 
search  of  her  husband.  He  found  her  child  and  Miss 
Pross  with  her;  but,  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  be  sur- 
prised by  their  appearance  until  a long  time  afterwards,  ' 
when  he  sat  watching  them  in  such  quiet  as  the  night  knew. 

Lucie  had,  by  that  time,  fallen  into  a stupor  on  the  floor  j 
at  his  feet,  clinging  to  his  hand.  Miss  Pross  had  laid  the  | 
child  down  on  his  own  bed,  and  her  head  had  gradually  ; 
fallen  on  the  pillow  beside  her  pretty  charge.  0 the  long, 
long  night,  with  the  moans  of  the  poor  wife ! And  O the 
long,  long  night,  with  no  return  of  her  father  and  no  tid- 
ings ! 

Twice  more  in  the  darkness  the  bell  at  the  great  gate 
sounded,  and  the  irruption  was  repeated,  and  the  grind- 
stone whirled  and  spluttered.  What  is  it?  cried  Lucie, 
affrighted.  ^^Hush!  The  soldiers’ swords  are  sharpened 
there,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  ^^The  place  is  national  property 
now,  and  used  as  a kind  of  armoury,  my  love.” 

Twice  more  in  all;  but,  the  last  spell  of  work  was  feeble 
and  fitful.  Soon  afterwards  the  day  began  to  dawn,  and 
he  softly  detached  himself  from  the  clasping  hand,  and 
cautiously  looked  out  again.  A man,  so  besmeared  that  he  ! 
might  have  been  a sorely  wounded  soldier  creeping  back  to  j 
consciousness  on  a field  of  slain,  was  rising  from  the  pave- 1 
ment  by  the  side  of  the  grindstone,  and  looking  about  him  j 
with  a vacant  air.  Shortly,  this  worn-out  murderer  descried  | 
in  the  imperfect  light  one  of  the  carriages  of  Monseigneur,  J 
and,  staggering  to  that  gorgeous  vehicle,  climbed  in  at  the 
door,  and  shut  himself  up  to  take  his  rest  on  its  dainty 
cushions.  | 

The  great  grindstone.  Earth,  had  turned  when  Mr.  Lorry 
looked  out  again,  and  the  sun  was  red  on  the  courtyard. 
But,  the  lesser  grindstone  stood  alone  there  in  the  calm 
morning  air,  with  a red  upon  it  that  the  sun  had  never 
given,  and  would  never  take  away. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


251 


CHAPTER  III. 

'T  the  shadow. 

T One  of  the  first  considerations  which  arose  in  the  busi- 
j ness  mind  of  Mr.  Lorry  when  business  hours  came  round 
was  this:— that  he  had  no  right  to  imperil  Tellson’s  by 
; sheltering  the  wife  of  an  emigrant  prisoner  under  the  Bank 
jroof.  His  own  possessions,  safety,  life,  he  would  have 
hazarded  for  Lucie  and  her  child,  without  a moment’s 
^ demui  j but  the  great  trust  he  held  was  not  his  own,  and 
^,as  to  that  business  charge  he  was  a strict  man  of  business. 

At  first,  his  mind  reverted  to  Defarge,  and  he  thought 
1 of  finding  out  the  wine-shop  again  and  taking  counsel  with 
jJts  master  in  reference  to  the  safest  dwelling-place  in  the 
fdistiacted  state  of  the  city.  But,  the  same  consideration 
Ithat  suggested  him,  repudiated  him;  he  lived  in  the  most 
j, violent  Quarter,  and  doubtless  was  influential  there,  and 
Ijdeep  in  its  dangerous  workings. 

, Noon  coming,  and  the  Doctor  not  returning,  and  every 
, minute’s  delay  tending  to  compromise  Tellson’s,  Mr.  Lorry 
advised  with  Lucie.  She  said  that  her  father  had  spoken 
of  hiring  a lodging  for  a short  term,  in  that  Quarter,  near 
the  Banking-house.  As  there  was  no  business  objection  to 
this,  and  as  he  foresaw  that  even  if  it  were  all  well  with 
.Charles,  and  he  were  to  be  released,  he  could  not  hope  to 
^leave  the  city,  Mr.  Lorry  went  out  in  quest  of  such  a lodg- 
ing, and  found  a suitable  one,  high  up  in  a removed  by- 
street where  the  closed  blinds  in  all  the  other  windows  of 
1 high  melancholy  square  of  buildings  marked  deserted 
jiomes. 

, To  this  lodging  he  at  once  removed  Lucie  and  her  child, 
ind  Miss  Pross:  giving  them  what  comfort  he  could,  and 
nuch  more  than  he  had  himself.  He  left  Jerry  with  them 
IS  a figure  to  fill  a doorway  that  would  bear  considerable 
mocking  on  the  head,  and  returned  to  his  own  occupations. 

L disturbed  and  doleful  mind  he  brought  to  bear  upon 
hem,  and  slowly  and  heavily  the  day  lagged  on  with  him. 

It  wore  Itself  out,  and  wore  him  out  with  it,  until  the 
Jank  closed.  He  was  again  alone  in  his  room  of  the 
«! 


252 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


previous  night,  considering  what  to  do  next,  when  he  heard 
a foot  upon  the  stair.  In  a few  moments,  a man  stood  in 
his  presence,  who,  with  a keenly  observant  look  at  him, 
addressed  him  by  his  name. 

“ Your  servant,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “Do  you  know  me?” 
He  was  a strongly  made  man  with  dark  curling  hair, 
from  forty-five  to  fifty  years  of  age.  For  answer  he  re- 
peated, without  any  change  of  emphasis,  the  words : 

“Do  you  know  me?  ” 

“I  have  seen  you  somewhere.”  i 

“ Perhaps  at  my  wine-shop?  ” 1 

Much  interested  and  agitated,  Mr.  Lorry  said : You  j 

come  from  Doctor  Manette?  ” 

“ Yes.  I come  from  Doctor  Manette.” 

“ And  what  says  he?  What  does  he  send  me?  ” 

Defarge  gave  into  his  anxious  hand,  an  open  scrap  of 
paper.  It  bore  the  words  in  the  Doctor’s  writing; 

“ Charles  is  safe,  but  I cannot  safely  leave  this  place  yet. 
I have  obtained  the  favour  that  the  bearer  has  a short  note 
from  Charles  to  his  wife.  Let  the  bearer  see  his  wife.” 

It  was  dated  from  La  Force,  within  an  hour.  _ 

“ Will  you  accompany  me,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  joyfully  re- 
lieved after  reading  this  note, aloud,  “to  where  his  wife  re- 
sides? 

Yes,”  returned  Defarge. 

Scarcely  noticing  as  yet,  in  what  a curiously  reserved 
and  mechanical  way  Defarge  spoke,  Mr.  Lorry  put  on  hisi 
hat  and  they  went  down  into  the  courtyard.  There,  thej 
found  two  women;  one,  knitting. 

“Madame  Defarge,  surely!”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  who  hac 
left  her  m exactly  the  same  attitude  some  seventeen  years 
ago. 

“It  is  she,”  observed  her  husband. 

“Does  Madame  go  with  us?”  inquired  Mr.  Lorry,  see 
ing  that  she  moved  as  they  moved. 

“ Yes.  That  she  may  be  able  to  recognise  the  faces  anc 
know  the  persons.  It  is  for  their  safety.” 

Beginning  to  be  struck  by  Defarge’ s manner,  Mr.  Lor^ 
looked  dubiously  at  him,  and  led  the  way.  Both  tlr 
women  followed;  the  second  woman  being  The  Venge 

ance.  . . , . 

They  passed  through  the  intervening  streets  as  quicKi. 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


253 


as  they  might,  ascended  the  staircase  of  the  new  domicile 
were  admitted  by  Jerry,  and  found  Lucie  weeping,  alone, 
bhe  was  thrown  into  a transport  by  the  tidings  Mr.  Lorry 
gave  her  of  her  husband,  and  clasped  the  hand  that  deliv- 
ered his  note — little  thinking  what  it  had  been  doing  near 
him  in  the  night,  and  might,  but  for  a chance,  have  done 
to  him. 

Dearest,  Take  courage.  I am  well,  and  your  father 
Has  inhuence  around  me.  You  cannot  answer  this.  Kiss 
our  child  for  me.” 

That  was  all  the  writing.  It  was  so  much,  however,  to 
her  who  received  it,  that  she  turned  from  Defarge  to  his 
wite,  and  kissed  one  of  the  hands  that  knitted.  It  was  a 
passionate,  loving,  thankful,  womanly  action,  but  the  hand 
nade  no  response — dropped  cold  and  heavy,  and  took  to 
ts  knitting  again. 

There  was  something  in  its  touch  that  gave  Lucie  a 
meek,  bhe  stopped  in  the  act  of  putting  the  note  in  her 
^er  hands  yet  at  her  neck,  looked  terrified 
it  Madame  Defarge.  Madame  Defarge  met  the  lifted  eye- 
)rows  and  forehead  with  a cold,  impassive  stare. 

My  dear,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  striking  in  to  explain; 
there  are  frequent  risings  in  the  streets;  and,  although  it 
3 not  likely  they  will  ever  trouble  you,  Madame  Defarge 
.wishes  to  see  those  whom  she  has  the  power  to  protect  at 
uch  times,  to  the  end  that  she  may  know  them — that  she 
lay  identify  them.  I believe,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  rather 
a mg  in  his  reassuring  words,  as  the  stony  manner  of  all 
le  three  impressed  itself  upon  him  more  and  more,  “I 
jate  tJi6  case,  Citizen  Defarge? 

Defarge  looked  gloomily  at  his  wife,  and  gave  no  other 
iSTOr  than  a gruff  sound  of  acquiescence, 
m better,  Lucie,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  doing  all  he 

Id  to  propitiate,  by  tone  and  manner,  “have  the  dear 
,,,  Sood  Pross.  Our  good  Pross,  Defarge, 

, an  English  lady,  and  knows  no  French.” 

e ady  in  question,  whose  rooted  conviction  that  she 
as  more  than  a match  for  any  foreigner,  was  not  to  be 
_ en  by  distress  and  danger,  appeared  with  folded  arms, 
id  observed  in  English  to  The  Vengeance,  whom  her  eyes 
St  encountered  “ Well,  I am  sure.  Boldface!  I hope  ^ou 
pretty  well . She  also  bestowed  a British  cough  on 


264 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Madame  Defarge;  but,  neither  of  the  two  took  much  heed 
of  her. 

“ Is  that  his  child?  ” said  Madame  Defarge,  stopping  in 
her  work  for  the  first  time,  and  pointing  her  knitting- 
needle  at  little  Lucie  as  if  it  were  the  finger  of  Fate. 

“Yes,  madame,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry;  “this  is  our  poor 
prisoner’s  darling  daughter,  and  only  child.” 

The  shadow  attendant  on  Madame  Defarge  and  her  party 
seemed  to  fall  so  threatening  and  dark  on  the  child,  that 
her  mother  instinctively  kneeled  on  the  ground  beside  her, 
and  held  her  to  her  breast.  The  shadow  attendant  on  Ma- 
dame Defarge  and  her  party  seemed  then  to  fall,  threaten- 
ing and  dark,  on  both  the  mother  and  the  child. 

“It  is  enough,  my  husband,”  said  Madame  Defarge.  “I 
have  seen  them.  We  may  go.” 

But,  the  suppressed  manner  had  enough  of  menace  in  it 
— not  visible  and  presented,  but  indistinct  and  withheld — 
to  alarm  Lucie  into  saying,  as  she  laid  her  appealing  hand 
on  Madame  Defarge’ s dress: 

“You  will  be  good  to  my  poor  husband.  You  will  do 
him  no  harm.  You  will  help  me  to  see  him  if  you  can?  ” 

“ Your  husband  is  not  my  business  here,”  returned  Mad- 
ame Defarge,  looking  down  at  her  with  perfect  composure. 

“ It  is  the  daughter  of  your  father  who  is  my  business 

here.”  i 

“For  my  sake,  then,  be  merciful  to  my  husband.  For’ 
my  child’s  sake!  She  will  put  her  hands  together  and 
pray  you  to  be  merciful.  We  are  more  afraid  of  you  than 
of  these  others.” 

Madame  Defarge  received  it  as  a compliment,  and  looked 
at  her  husband.  Defarge,  who  had  been  uiieasily  biting 
his  thumb-nail  and  looking  at  her,  collected  his  face  into  a 
sterner  expression.  I 

“What  is  it  that  your  husband  says  in  that  little  let-! 
ter?  ” asked  Madame  Defarge,  with  a lowering  smile. : 
“Influence;  he  says  something  touching  influence?  ” 

“That  my  father,”  said  Lucie,  hurriedly  taking  the  pa- 
per from  her  breast,  but  with  her  alarmed  eyes  on  her  ques- 
tioner and  not  on  it,  “has  much  influence  around  him.” 
“Surely  it  will  release  him!”  said  Madame  Defarge. 
“ Let  it  do  so.  ” 

“As  a wife  and  mother,”  cried  Lucie,  most  earnestly, 
“ I implore  you  to  have  pity  on  me  and  not  to  exercise  any 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


255 


power  that  you  possess,  against  my  innocent  husband  but 
to  use  it  in  his  behalf.  O sister- woman,  think  of  me.  As 
a wife  and  mother ! ” 

Madame  Defarge  looked,  coldly  as  ever,  at  the  suppliant 
and  said,  turning  to  her  friend  The  Vengeance : ’ 

“ The  wives  and  mothers  we  have  been  used  to  see,  since 
we  were  as  little  as  this  child,  and  much  less,  have  not 
been  greatly  considered?  We  have  known  their  husbands 
and  fathers  laid  in  prison  and  kept  from  them,  often 
enough?  All  our  lives,  we  have  seen  our  sister- women 
sutler,  in  themselves  and  in  their  children,  poverty,  naked- 
ness, hunger,  thirst,  sickness,  misery,  oppression  and  neg- 
lect of  all  kinds?  ” 

‘‘We  have  seen  nothing  else,”  returned  The  Vengeance. 
We  have  borne  this  a long  time,”  said  Madame  De- 
targe,  turning  her  eyes  again  upon  Lucie.  “Judge  you! 
Is  it  likely  that  the  trouble  of  one  wife  and  mother  would 
be  much  to  us  now? 

i She  resumed  her  knitting  and  went  out.  The  Vengeance 
Itoltowed.  Defarge  went  last,  and  closed  the  door. 

“Courage,  my  dear  Lucie,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  as  he  raised 
her.  Courage,  courage!  So  far  all  goes  well  with  us— 
jtnuch,  much  better  than  it  has  of  late  gone  with  many  poor 
louls.  Cheer  up,  and  have  a thankful  heart.” 
j “ I am  not  thankless,  I hope,  but  that  dreadful  woman 
^jeems  to  throw  a shadow  on  me  and  on  all  my  hopes.” 

' Lorry;  “what  is  this  despondency 

n the  brave  little  breast?  A shadow  indeed!  No  sub- 
stance 111  it,  Lucie.” 

But  the  shadow  of  the  manner  of  these  Defarges  was 
i opon  himself,  for  all  that,  and  in  his  secret  mind  it 
roiibled  him  greatly. 

I 

t 

1 CHAPTER  IV. 

& 

CALM  IN  STORM. 

' Doctok  Manette  did  not  return  until  the  morning  of 
,ie  fourth  day  of  his  absence.  So  much  of  what  had  hap- 
ened  m that  dreadful  time  as  could  be  kept  from  the 
nowledge  of  Lucie  was  so  well  concealed  from  her,  that 

'i 


266  A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

not  until  long  afterwards,  when  France  and  she  were  far  | 
apart,  did  she  know  that  eleven  hundred  defenceless  pris-  i 
oners  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages  had  been  killed  by  the 
populace;  that  four  days  and  nights  had  been  darkened  by 
this  deed  of  horror;  and  that  the  air  around  her  had  been 
tainted  by  the  slain.  She  only  knew  that  there  had  been 
an  attack  upon  the  prisons,  that  all  political  prisoners  had  | 
been  in  danger,  and  that  some  had  been  dragged  out  by  the  j 

crowd  and  murdered.  , . 

To  Mr.  Lorry,  the  Doctor  communicated  under  an  injunc- 
tion of  secrecy  on  which  he  had  no  need  to  dwell,  that  the 
crowd  had  taken  him  through  a scene  of  carnage  to  the 
prison  of  La  Force.  That,  in  the  prison  he  had  found  a 
self-appointed  Tribunal  sitting,  before  which  the  prisoners 
were  brought  singly,  and  by  which  they  were  rapidly  or-  j 
dered  to  be  put  forth  to  be  massacred,  or  to  be  released,  or 
(in  a few  cases)  to  be  sent  back  to  their  cells.  That,  pre- 
sented by  his  conductors  to  this  Tribunal,  he  had  announced 
himself  byname  and  profession  as  having  been  for  eighteen 
years  a secret  and  unaccused  prisoner  in  the  Bastille;  that, 
one  of  the  body  so  sitting  in  judgment  had  risen  and  iden- 
tified him,  and  that  this  man  was  Defarge. 

That,  hereupon  he  had  ascertained,  through  the  registers 
on  the  table,  that  his  son-in-law  was  among  the  living  pris- 
oners, and  had  pleaded  hard  to  the  Tribunal— of  whom| 
some  members  were  asleep  and  some  awake,  some  dirty 
with  murder  and  some  clean,  some  sober  and  some  not--tor 
his  life  and  liberty.  That,  in  the  first  frantic  greetings 
lavished  on  himself  as  a notable  sufferer  under  the  over- 
thrown system,  it  had  been  accorded  to  him  to  have  Charles 
Darnay  brought  before  the  lawless  Court,  and  examined. 
That,  he  seemed  on  the  point  of  being  at  once  released, 
when  the  tide  in  his  favour  met  with  some  unexplainedi 
check  (not  intelligible  to  the  Doctor),  which  led  to  a tew 
words  of  secret  conference.  That,  the  man  sitting  as  Fres- 
ident  had  then  informed  Doctor  Manette  that  the  prisoner 
must  remain  in  custody,  but  should,  for  his  sake,  be  he 
inviolate  in  safe  custody.  That,  immediately,  on  a signa 
the  prisoner  was  removed  to  the  interior  of  the  prisor 
again;  but,  that  he,  the  Doctor,  had  then  so  strong!) 
pleaded  for  permission  to  remain  and  assure  himselt  tlia 
his  son-in-law  was,  through  no  malice  or  mischance,  deliv 
ered  to  the  concourse  whose  murderous  yells  outside  tiu 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


257 


gate  had  often  drowned  the  proceedings,  that  he  had  ob- 
tained the  permission,  and  had  remained  in  that  Hall  of 
Blood  until  the  danger  was  over. 

The  sights  he  had  seen  there,  with  brief  snatches  of  food 
and  sleep  by  intervals,  shall  remain  untold.  The  mad  joy 
over  the  prisoners  who  were  saved,  had  astounded  him 
scarcely  less  than  the  mad  ferocity  against  those  who  were 
: cut  to  pieces.  One  prisoner  there  was,  he  said,  who  had 
been  discharged  into  the  street  free,  but  at  whom  a mis- 
taken savage  had  thrust  a pike  as  he  passed  out.  Being 
besought  to  go  to  him  and  dress  the  wound,  the  Doctor  had 
passed  out  at  the  same  gate,  and  had  found  him  in  the 
;arms  of  a company  of  Samaritans,  who  were  seated  on  the 
bodies  of  their  victims.  With  an  inconsistency  as  mons- 
trous as  anything  in  this  awful  nightmare,  they  had  helped 
the  healer,  and  tended  the  wounded  man  with  the  gentlest 
;Solicitude— had  made  a litter  for  him  and  escorted  him 
carefully  from  the  spot — had  then  caught  up  their  weapons 
and  plunged  anew  into  a butchery  so  dreadful,  that  the 
jDoctor  had  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  and  swooned 
;away  in  the  midst  of  it. 

As  Mr.  Lorry  received  these  confidences,  and  as  he 
watched  the  face  of  his  friend  now  sixty-two  years  of  age, 
a misgiving  arose  within  him  that  such  dread  experiences 
would  revive  the  old  danger.  But,  he  had  never  seen  his 
friend  in  his  present  aspect : he  had  never  at  all  known 
tiim  in  his  present  character.  For  the  first  time  the  Doc- 
tor felt,  now,  that  his  suffering  was  strength  and  power. 
For  the  first  time  he  felt  that  in  that  sharp  fire,  he  had 
slowly  forged  the  iron  which  could  break  the  prison  door 
)f  his  daughter’s  husband,  and  deliver  him.  “ It  all  tended 
,:o  a good  end,  my  friend;  it  was  not  mere  waste  and  ruin, 
is  my  beloved  child  was  helpful  in  restoring  me  to  myself, 

. will  be  helpful  now  in  restoring  the  dearest  part  of  her- 
self to  her;  by  the  aid  of  Heaven  I will  do  it!”  Thus, 

■ Joctor  Manette.  And  when  Jarvis  Lorry  saw  the  kindled 
yes,  the  resolute  face,  the  calm  strong  look  and  bearing 
if  the  man  whose  life  always  seemed  to  him  to  have  been 
topped,  like  a clock,  for  so  many  years,  and  then  set  go- 
ng  again  with  an  energy  which  had  lain  dormant  during 
he  cessation  of  its  usefulness,  he  believed. 

Gi eater  things  than  the  Doctor  had  at  that  time  to  con- 
end  with,  would  have  yielded  before  his  persevering  pur- 


258 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


pose.  While  he  kept  himself  in  his  place,  as  a physicianJ 
whose  business  was  with  all  degrees  of  mankind,  bond  and 
free,  rich  and  poor,  bad  and  good,  he  used  his  personal  inJ 
fluence  so  wisely,  that  he  was  soon  the  inspecting  physician 
of  three  prisons,  and  among  them  of  La  Force.  He  could 
now  assure  Lucie  that  her  husband  was  no  longer  confined 
alone,  but  was  mixed  with  the  general  body  of  prisoners] 
he  saw  her  husband  weekly,  and  brought  sweet  messages  td 
her,  straight  from  his  lips;  sometimes  her  husband  himseli 
sent  a letter  to  her,  though  never  by  the  Doctor’s  hand)] 
but  she  was  not  permitted  to  write  to  him : for,  among  the 
many  wild  suspicions  of  plots  in  the  prisons,  the  wildest] 
of  all  pointed  at  emigrants  who  were  known  to  have  madfi 
friends  or  permanent  connections  abroad.  : 

This  new  life  of  the  Doctor’s  was  an  anxious  life,  nc 
doubt;  still,  the  sagacious  Mr.  Lorry  saw  that  there  was  a 
new  sustaining  pride  in  it.  Nothing  unbecoming  tinged 
the  pride;  it  was  a natural  and  worthy  one;  but  he  ob- 
served it  as  a curiosity.  The  Doctor  knew,  that  up  to  that 
time,  his  imprisonment  had  been  associated  in  the  minds 
of  his  daughter  and  his  friend,  with  his  personal  affliction, 
deprivation,  and  weakness.  Now  that  this  was  changed, 
and  he  knew  himself  to  be  invested  through  that  old  trial 
with  forces  to  which  they  both  looked  for  Charles’s  ulti- 
mate safety  and  deliverance,  he  became  so  far  exalted  bji 
the  change,  that  he  took  the  lead  and  direction,  and  re- 
quired them  as  the  weak,  to  trust  to  him  as  the  strong. 
The  preceding  relative  positions  of  himself  and  Lucie  were 
reversed,  yet  only  as  the  liveliest  gratitude  and  affectior 
could  reverse  them,  for  he  could  have  had  no  pride  but  ir 
rendering  some  service  to  her  who  had  rendered  so  mud 
to  him.  All  curious  to  see,”  thought  Mr.  Lorry,  in  hi." 
amiably  shrewd  way,  ^^but  all  natural  and  right;  so,  take 
the  lead,  my  dear  friend,  and  keep  it;  it  couldn’t  be  ir 
better  hands.” 

But,  though  the  Doctor  tried  hard,  and  never  ceased  try- 
ing, to  get  Charles  Darnay  set  at  liberty,  or  at  least  to  gd 
him  brought  to  trial,  the  public  current  of  the  time  set  toe 
strong  and  fast  for  him*.  The  new  era  began;  the  king  wae 
tried,  doomed,  and  beheaded;  the  Eepublic  of  Liberty, 
Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  declared  for  victory  oi' 
death  against  the  world  in  arms;  the  black  flag  waved 
night  and  day  from  the  great  towers  of  Notre  Dame;  three 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


269 


ijundred  thousand  men,  summoned  to  rise  against  the  ty- 
ints  of  the  earth,  rose  from  all  the  varying  soils  of  France, 
s if  the  dragon’s  teeth  had  been  sown  broadcast,  and  had 
ielded  fruit  equally  on  hill  and  plain,  on  rock,  in  gravel, 
ud  alluvial  mud,  under  the  bright  sky  of  the  South  and 
nder  the  clouds  of  the  North,  in  fell  and  forest,  in  the 
ineyaids  and  the  olive-grounds  and  among  the  cropped 
rass  and  the  stubble  of  the  corn,  along  the  fruitful  banks 
f the  broad  rivers,  and  in  the  sand  of  the  sea-shore.  What 
rivate  solicitude  could  rear  itself  against  the  delug-e  of  the 
; ea,r  One  of  Liberty — the  deluge  rising  from  below,  not 
tiling  from  above,  and  with  the  windows  of  Heaven  shut, 
at  opened ! 

There  was  no  pause,  no  pity,  no  peace,  no  interval  of  re- 
nting  rest,  no  measurement  of  time.  Though  days  and 
ghts  circled  as  regularly  as  when  time  was  young,  and 
■le  evening  and  morning  were  the  first  day,  other  count  of 
me  there  was  none.  Hold  of  it  was  lost  in  the  raging 
,ver  of  a nation,  as  it  is  in  the  fever  of  one  patient.  Now, 
eaking  the  unnatural  silence  of  a whole  city,  the  execu- 
oner  showed  the  people  the  head  of  the  king— and  now, 
seemed  almost  in  the  same  breath,  the  head  of  his-fair 
ife  which  had  had  eight  weary  months  of  imprisoned 
idowhood  and  misery,  to  turn  it  grey. 

And  yet,  observing  the  strange  law  of  contradiction 
hich  obtains  in  all  such  cases,  the  time  was  long,  while  it 
lined  by  so  fast.  A revolutionary  tribunal  in  the  capital, 
id  forty  or  fifty  thousand  revolutionary  committees  all 
er  the  land;  a law  of  the  Suspected,  which  struck  away 
1 security  for  liberty  or  life,  and  delivered  over  any  good 
d innocent  person  to  any  bad  and  guilty  one;  prisons 
■rpd  with  people  who  had  committed  no  offence,  and 
uld  obtain  no  hearing;  these  things  became  the  estab- 
hed  order  and  nature  of  appointed  things,  and  seemed  to 
ancient  usage  before  they  were  many  weeks  old.  Above  ' 
one  hideous  figure  grew  as  familiar  as  if  it  had  been 

fore  the  general  gaze  from  the  foundations  of  the  world 

■3  figure  of  the  sharp  female  called.  La  Guillotine^  ~ 

It  was  the  popular  theme  for  jests;  it  wasl'he  best  cure  ; 

headache,  it  infallibly  prevented  the  hair  from  turning 
3y,  it  imparted  a peculiar  delicacy  to  the  complexion,  it  ; 
s the  National  Razor  which  shaved  close : who  kissed  ■ 

■ Guillotine,  looked  through  the  little  window  and  sneezed  ? 


260 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


into  the  sack.  It  was  the  sign  of  the  regeneration  of  the  | 
human  race.  It  superseded  the  Cross.  Models  of  it  were 
worn  on  breasts  from  which  the  Cross  was  discarded,  and 
it  was  bowed  down  to  and  believed  in  where  the  Cross  was  I 
denied.  ! 

It  sheared  off  heads  so  many,  that  it,  and  the  ground  it  i 
most  polluted,  were  a rotten  red.  It  was  taken  to  pieces,  I 
like  a toy-puzzle  for  a young  Devil,  and  was  put  together  j 
again  when  the  occasion  wanted  it.  It  hushed  the  elo- 
quent, struck  down  the  powerful,  abolished  the  beautiful 
and  good.  Twenty-two  friends  of  high  public  mark,  twenty- 
one  living  and  one  dead,  it  had  lopped  the  heads  off,  in  one 
morning,  in  as  many  minutes.  The  name  of  the  strong  i 
man  of  Old  Scripture  had  descended  to  the  chief  function- 
ary who  worked  it;  but,  so  armed,  he  was  stronger  than 
his  namesake,  and  blinder,  and  tore  away  the  gates  of 
God’s  own  Temple  every  day. 

Among  these  terrors,  and  the  brood  belonging  to  them, 
the  Doctor  walked  with  a steady  head:  confident  in  his 
power,  cautiously  persistent  in  his  end,  never  doubting  that 
he  would  save  Lucie’s  husband  at  last.  Yet  the  current 
of  the  time  swept  by,  so  strong  and  deep,  and  carried  the 
time  away  so  fiercely,  that  Charles  had  lain  in  prison  one 
year  and  three  months  when  the  Doctor  was  thus  steady 
and  confident.  So  much  more  wicked  and  distracted  had  i 
the  Revolution  grown  in  that  December  month,, that  the  i 
rivers  of  the^^South  were  encumbered  with  the  bodies  of  the  | 
violently  drowned  by  night,  and  prisoners  were  shot  in  I 
lines  and  squares  under  the  southern  wintry  sui^  Still,  the 
Doctor  walked  among  the  terrors  with  a steady  head.  No 
man  better  known  than  he,  in  Paris  at  that  day;  no  man 
in  a stranger  situation.  Silent,  humane,  indispensable  in 
hospital  and  prison,  using  his  art  equally  among  assassins  i 
and  victims,  he  was  a man  apart.  In  the  exercise  of  his 
skill,  the  appearance  and  the  story  of  the  Baatille  Captive 
removed  him  from  all  other  men.  He  was  not  suspected 
or  brought  in  question,  any  more  than  if  he  had  indeed 
been  recalled  to  life  some  eighteen  years  before,  or  were  a 
Spirit  moving  among  mortals. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


261 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  WOOD-SAWYER. 

One  year  arid  three  months.  During  all  that  time  Lucie 
Was  never  sure,  from  hour  to  hour,  but  the  Guillotine 
would  strike  off  her  husband’s  head  next  day.  Every  day, 
through  the  stony  streets,  the  tumbrils  now  jolted  heavily, 
tilled  with  Condemned.  Lovely  girls;  bright  women, 
orown-haired,  black-haired,  and  grey;  youths;  stalwart 
nen  and  old;  gentle  born  and  peasant  born;  all  red  wine 
Por  La  Guillotine,  all  daily  brought  into  light  from  the 
lark  cellars  of  the  loathsome  prisons,  and  carried  to  her 
hrough  the  streets  to  slake  her  devouring  thirst.  Liberty, 
equality,  fraternity,  or  death;— the  last,  much  the  easiest 
:0ibrestiJw,“  'O  Guillotine ! 

If  the  suddenness  of  her  calamity,  and  the  whirling 
wheels  of  the  time,  had  stunned  the  Doctor’s  daughter  into 
iwaiting  the  result  in  idle  despair,  it  would  but  have  been 
with  her  as  it  was  with  many.  But,  from  the  hour  when 
die  had  taken  the  white  head  to  her  fresh  young  bosom  in 
he  garret  of  Saint  Antoine,  she  had  been  true  to  her  du- 
iies.  She  was  truest  to  them  in  the  season  of  trial,  as  all 
he  quietly  loyal  and  good  will  always  be. 

As  soon  as  they  were  established  in  their  new  residence, 
md  her  father  had  entered  on  the  routine  of  his  avocations, 
he  arranged  the  little  household  as  exactly  as  if  her  hus- 
land  had  been  there.  Everything  had  its  appointed  place 
.nd  its  appointed  time.  Little  Lucie  she  taught,  as  regu- 
arly,  as  if  they  had  all  been  united  in  their  English  home. 
Che  slight  devices  with  which  she  cheated  herself  into  the 
how  of  a belief  that  they  would  soon  be  reunited — the  tit- 
le preparations  for  his  speedy  return,  the  setting  aside  of 
Is  chair  and  his  books — these,  and  the  solemn  prayer  at 
ight  for  one  dear  prisoner  especially,  among  the  many  un- 
appy  souls  in  prison  and  the  shadow  of  death — were  al- 
lost  the  only  outspoken  reliefs  of  her  heavy  mind. 

She  did  not  greatly  alter  in  appearance.  The  plain  dark 
resses,  akin  to  mourning  dresses,  which  she  and  her  child 


262  A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

wore,  were  as  neat  and  as  well  attended  to  as  the  brighter 
clothes  of  happy  days.  She  lost  her  colour,  and  the  old 
and  intent  expression  was  a constant,  not  an  occasional, 
thing;  otherwise,  she  remained  very  pretty  and  comely. 
Sometimes,  at  night  on  kissing  her  father,  she  would  burst 
into  the  grief  she  had  repressed  all  day,  and  would  say 
that  her  sole  reliance,  under  Heaven,  was  on  him.  He  al- 
ways resolutely  answered ; “Nothing  can  happen  to  him 
without  my  knowledge,  and  I know  that  I can  save  him, 
Lucie.” 

They  had  not  made  the  round  of  their  changed  life  many 
weeks,  when  her  father  said  to  her,  on  coming  home  one 

evening ; ... 

“ My  dear,  there  is  an  upper  window  in  the  prison,  to 
which  Charles  can  sometimes  gain  access  at  three  in  the 
afternoon.  When  he  can  get  to  it — which  depends  on 
many  uncertainties  and  incidents— ^e  might  see  you  in  the 
street,  he  thinks,  if  you  stood  in  a certain  place  that  I can 
show  you.  But  you  will  not  be  able  to  see  him,  my  poor 
child,  and  even  if  you  could,  it  would  be  unsafe  for  you  to 
make  a sign  of  recognition.” 

“ 0 show  me  the  place,  my  father,  and  I will  go  there 
every  day.” 

From  that  time,  in  all  weathers,  she  waited  there  twc 
hours.  As  the  clock  struck  two,  she  was  there,  and  at 
four  she  turned  resignedly  away.  When  it  was  not  too  wet 
or  inclement  for  her  child  to  be  with  her,  they  went  to- 
gether; at  other  times  she  was  alone;  but,  sbe  never  missec 
a single  day. 

It  was  the  dark  and  dirty  corner  of  a small  winding 
street.  The  hovel  of  a cutter  of  wood  into  lengths  fo’; 
burning,  was  the  only  house  at  that  end;  all  else  was  wall 
On  the  third  day  of  her  being  there,  he  noticed  her. 

“Good  day,  citizeness.” 

“Good  day,  citizen.” 

This  mode  of  address  was  now  prescribed  by  decree.  I 
had  been  established  voluntarily  some  time  ago,  amoni 
the  more  thorough  patriots;  but,  was  now  law  for  every 
body. 

“Walking  here  again,  citizeness?” 

“ You  see  me,  citizen ! ” 

The  wood-sawyer,  who  was  a little  man  with  a redunc 
ancy  of  gesture  (he  had  once  been  a mender  of  roads),  cast 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


263 


glance  at  the  prison,  pointed  at  the  prison,  and  putting  his 
fingers  before  his  face  to  represent  bars,  peeped  through 
em  jocosely. 

H ^‘But  it’s  not  my  business,”  said  he.  And  went  on  saw- 
|.ng  his  wood. 

Next  day  he  was  looking  out  for  her,  and  accosted  her 
he  moment  she  appeared, 
j ^^What?  Walking  here  again,  citizeness?” 

^ Yes,  citizen.” 

i|  Ah ! A child  too ! Your  mother,  is  it  not,  my  little 

pitizeness?  ” 

^ ‘^Do  I say  yes,  mamma?”  whispered  little  Lucie,  draw- 
ing close  to  her. 

I ‘‘Yes,  dearest.” 

^ “ Yes,  citizen.” 

“Ah!  But  it’s  not  my  business.  My  work  is  my  bush 
I ess.  See  my  saw ! I call  it  my  Little  Guillotine.  La, 
ja,  la;  La,  la,  la!  And  off  his  head  comes!  ” 

The  billet  fell  as  he  spoke,  and  he  threw  it  into  a basket. 

I I call  myself  the  Samson  of  the  firewood  guillotine, 
'•ee  here  again!  Loo,  loo,  loo;  Loo,  loo,  loo!  And  off  her 
ead  comes ! Now,  a child.  Tickle,  tickle;  Pickle,  pickle ! 
>nd  off  its  head  conies.  All  the  family!  ” 

Lucie  shuddered  as  he  threw  two  more  billets  into  his 
^asket,  but  it  was  impossible  to  be  there  while  the  wood- 
iwyer  was  at  work,  and  not  be  in  his  sight.  Thenceforth, 

) secure  his  good  will,  she  always  spoke  to  him  first,  and 
Pten  gave  him  drink-money,  which  he  readily  received. 

He  was  an  inquisitive  fellow,  and  sometimes  when  she 
ad  quite  forgotten  him  in  gazing  at  the  prison  roof  and 
mtes,  and  in  lifting  her  heart  up  to  her  husband,  she 
ould  come  to  herself  to  find  him  looking  at  her,  with  his 
nee  on  his  bench  and  his  saw  stopped  in  its  work.  But 
’s  not  my  business!”  he  would  generally  say  at  those 
mes,  and  would  briskly  fall  to  his  sawing  again. 

^ In  all  weathers,  in  the  snow  and  frost  of  winter,  in  the 
tter  winds  of  spring,  in  the  hot  sunshine  of  summer,  in 
le  rams  of  autumn,  and  again  in  the  snow  and  frost  of 
inter,  Lucie  passed  two  hours  of  every  day  at  this  place; 
id  every  day  on  leaving  it,  she  kissed  the  prison  wall. 
gCr  husband  saw  her  (so  she  learned  from  her  father)  it 
^ght  be  once  in  five  or  six  times : it  might  be  twice  or 
Jnce  running:  it  might  be,  not  for  a week  or  a fortnight 


264 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


together.  It  was  enough  that  he  could  and  did  see  her 
when  the  chances  served,  and  on  that  possibility  she  would 
have  waited  out  the  day,  seven  days  a week.  ^ 

These  occupations  brought  her  round  to  the  December 
month,  wherein  her  father  walked  among  the  terrors  with 
a steady  head.  On  a lightly-snowing  afternoon  she  arrived 
at  the  usual  corner.  It  was  a day  of  some  wild  rejoicing, 
and  a festival.  She  had  seen  the  houses,  as  she  came 
along,  decorated  with  little  pikes,  and  with  little  red  caps 
stuck  upon  them;  also,  with  tricoloured  ribbons;  also,  with 
the  standard  inscription  (tricoloured  letters  were  the  fa- 
vourite), Eepublic  One  and  Indivisible.  Liberty,  Equality, 
Fraternity,  or  Death! 

The  miserable  shop  of  the  wood- sawyer  was  so  small, 
that  its  whole  surface  furnished  very  indifferent  space  for 
this  legend.  He  had  got  somebody  to  scrawl  it  up  for  him, 
however,  who  had  sq^ueezed  Death  in  with  most  inappro- 
priate difficulty.  On  his  house-top,  he  displayed  pike  and 
cap  as  a good  citizen  must,  and  in  a window  he  had  ^ sta- 
tioned his  saw  inscribed  as  his  Little  Sainte  Guillotine  ’’ 

for  the  great  sharp  female  was  by  that  time  popularly 

canonised.  His  shop  was  shut  and  he  was  not  there,  which 
was  a relief  to  Lucie,  and  left  her  quite  alone. 

But,  he  was  not  far  off,  for  presently  she  heard  a tiou- 
bled  movement  and  a shouting  coming  along,  which  filled 
her  with  fear.  A moment  afterwards,  and  a throng  of 
people  came  pouring  round  the  corner  by  the  prison  wall, 
in  the  midst  of  whom  was  the  wood-sawyer  hand  in  hand 
with  The  Vengeance.  There  could  not  be  fewer  than  five 
hundred  people,  and  they  were  dancing,  like  five  thousand 
demons.  There  was  no  other  music  than  their  own  sing- 
ing. They  danced  to  the  popular  Revolution  song,  keeping  | 
a ferocious  time  that  was  like  a gnashing  of  teeth  in  unison.  ^ 
Men  and  women  danced  together,  women  danced  together, 
men  danced  together,  as  hazard  had  brought  them  togethei. 
At  first,  they  were  a mere  storm  of  coarse  red  caps  and 
coarse  woollen  rags;  but,  as  they  filled  the  place,  and 
stopped  to  dance  about  Lucie,  some  ghastly  apparition  of  a 
dance-figure  gone  raving  mad  arose  among  them.  They 
advanced,  retreated,  struck  atone  another's  hands,  clutched 
at  one  another's  heads,  spun  round  alone,  caught  one  an- 
other and  spun  round  in  pairs,  until  many  of  tliein 
dropped.  While  those  were  down,  the  rest  linked  hand  id 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


265 


hand,  and  all  spun  round  together : then  the  ring  broke, 
and  in  separate  rings  of  two  and  four  they  turned  and 
turned  until  they  all  stopped  at  once,  began  again,  struck, 
clutched,  and  tore,  and  then  reversed  the  spin,  and  all 
spun  round  another  way.  Suddenly  they  stopped  again, 
paused,  struck  out  the  time  afresh,  formed  into  lines  the 
width  of  the  public  way,  and  with  their  heads  low  down 
and  their  hands  high  up,  swooped  screaming  off.  No  fight 
could  have  been  half  so  terrible  as  this  dance.  It  was  so 
emphatically  a fallen  sport — a something,  once  innocent, 
delivered  over  to  all  devilry — a healthy  pastime  changed 
into  a means  of  angering  the  blood,  bewildering  the  senses, 
rnd  steeling  the  heart.  Such  grace  as  was  visible  in  it, 
made  it  the  uglier,  showing  how  warped  and  perverted  all 
:hings  good  by  nature  were  become.  The  maidenly  bosom 
oared  to  this,  the  pretty  almost-child’s  head  thus  distracted, 
ohe  delicate  foot  mincing  in  this  slough  of  blood  and  dirt, 
were  types  of  the  disjointed  time. 

This  was  the  Carmagnole.  As  it  passed,  leaving  Lucie 
lightened  and  bewildered  in  the  doorway  of  the  wood- saw- 
yer’s house,  the  feathery  snow  fell  as  quietly  and  lay  as 
vhite  and  soft,  as  if  it  had  never  been. 

0 my  father ! ” for  he  stood  before  her  when  she  lifted 
ip  the  eyes  she  had  momentarily  darkened  with  her  hand; 
^such  a cruel,  bad  sight.” 

1 know,  my  dear,  I know.  I have  seen  it  many  times. 
3on’t  be  frightened!  Not  one  of  them  would  harm  you.” 

“ I am  not  frightened  for  myself,  my  father.  But  when  I 

hink  of  my  husband,  and  the  mercies  of  these  people ” 

i “We  will  set  him  above  their  mercies  very  soon.  I left 
! lim  climbing  to  the  window,  and  I came  to  tell  you. 
I^Chere  is  no  one  here  to  see.  You  may  kiss  your  hand 
owards  t^iat  highest  shelving  roof.” 

! “ I do  so,  father,  and  I send  my  Soul  with  it  1 ” 

I “ You  cannot  see  him,  my  poor  dear?  ” 

I “No,  father,”  said  Lucie,  yearning  and  weeping  as  she 
I'dssed  her  hand,  “no.” 

It  A footstep  in  the  snow.  Madame  Defarge.  “ I salute 
li'ou,  citizeness,”  from  the  Doctor.  “I  salute  you,  citizen.” 
j 'his  in  passing.  Nothing  more.  Madame  Defarge  gone, 
like  a shadow  over  the  white  road. 

I*'  “ Give  me  your  arm,  my  love.  Pass  from  here  with  an 
r ir  of  cheerfulness  and  courage,  for  his  sake.  That  was 


JL 


266 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


well  done;  ” they  had  left  the  spot;  ^4t  shall  not  be  in 
vain.  Charles  is  summoned  for  to-morrow.” 

For  to-morrow  ! ” 

There  is  no  time  to  lose.  I am  well  prepared,  but 
there  are  precautions  to  be  taken,  that  could  not  be  taken 
until  he  was  actually  summoned  before  the  Tribunal.  He 
has  not  received  the  notice  yet,  but  I know  that  he  will 
presently  be  summoned  for  to-morrow,  and  removed  to  the 
Conciergerie;  I have  timely  information.  You  are  not 
afraid?  ” 

She  could  scarcely  answer,  trust  in  you.” 

^^Do  so,  implicitly.  Your  suspense  is  nearly  ended,  my 
darling;  he  shall  be  restored  to  you  within  a few  hours;  I 
have  encompassed  him  with  every  protection.  I must  see 
Lorry.” 

He  stopped.  There  was  a heavy  lumbering  of  wheeh 
within  hearing.  They  both  knew  too  well  what  it  meant^ 
One.  Two.  Three.  Three  tumbrils  faring  away  with 
their  dread  loads  over  the  hushing  snow. 

must  see  Lorry,”  the  Doctor  repeated,  turning  hei 
another  way. 

The  staunch  old  gentleman  was  still  in  his  trust;  had 
never  left  it.  He  and  his  books  were  in  frequent  requisi- 
tion as  to  property  confiscated  and  made  national.  Whal 
he  could  save  for  the  owners,  he  saved.  No  better  man 
living  to  hold  fast  by  what  Tellson’s  had  in  keeping,  and 
to  hold  his  peace. 

A murky  red  and  yellow  sky,  and  a rising  mist  from  the 
Seine,  denoted  the  approach  of  darkness.  It  was  almost 
dark  when  they  arrived  at  the  Bank.  The  stately  resi- 
dence of  Monseigneur  was  altogether  blighted  and  deserted. 
Above  a heap  of  dust  and  ashes  in  the  court,  ran  the  let- 
ters: National  Property.  Eepublic  One  and  Indivisible. 
Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death ! 

Who  could  that  be  with  Mr.  Lorry — the  owner  of  the 
riding-coat  upon  the  chair — who  must  not  be  seen?  Frora 
whom  newly  arrived,  did  he  come  out,  agitated  and  sur- 
prised, to  take  his  favourite  in  his  arms?  To  whom  did  he 
appear  to  repeat  her  faltering  words,  when,  raising  his 
voice  and  turning  his  head  towards  the  door  of  the  room 
from  which  he  had  issued,  he  said : Removed  to  the  Coii- 

ciergerie,  and  summoned  for  to-morrow?  ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


267 


CHAPTER  VI. 

I 

TRIUMPH. 

The  dread  Tribunal  of  five  Judges,  Public  Prosecutor, 
id  determined  Jury,  sat  every  day.  Their  lists  went 
>rth  every  evening,  and  were  read  out  by  the  gaolers  of 
le  various  prisons  to  their  prisoners.  The  standard  gaoler- 
ke  was.  Come  out  and  listen  to  the  Evening  Paper  you 
side  there  I”  v > j 

j Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay!” 

, So  at  last  began  the  Evening  Paper  at  La  Force. 

; When  a name  was  called,  its  owner  stepped  apart  into  a 
lot  reserved  for  those  who  were  announced  as  being  thus 
^ tally  recorded.  Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,  had 
lason  to  know  the  usage;  he  had  seen  hundreds  pass  away 

His  bloated  gaoler,  who  wore  spectacles  to  read  with, 
aimed  over  them  to  assure  himself  that  he  had  taken  his 
ace,  and  went  through  the  list,  making  a similar  short 
use  at  each  name.  There  were  twenty-three  names,  but 
ly  twenty  were  responded  to;  for  one  of  the  prisoners  so 
mmoned  had  died  in  gaol  and  been  forgotten,  and  two 
d already  been  guillotined  and  forgotten.  The  list  was 
id,  in  the  vaulted  chamber  where  Darnay  had  seen  the 
^ociated  prisoners  on  the  night  of  his  arrival.  Every  one 
those  had  perished  in  the  massacre;  every  human  creat- 
,3  he  had  since  cared  for  and  parted  with,  had  died  on  the 
iiiold. 

There  were  hurried  words  of  farewell  and  kindness,  but 
1 parting  was  soon  over.  It  was  the  incident  of  every 
y,  and  the  society  of  La  Force  were  engaged  in  the  prep- 
,ition  of  some  games  of  forfeits  and  a little  concert,  for 
It  evening.  They  crowded  to  the  grates  and  shed  tears 
ue;  but,  twenty  places  in  the  projected  entertainments 
1 to  be  refilled,  and  the  time  was,  at  best,  short  to  the 
k-up  hour,  when  the  common  rooms  and  corridors  would 
delivered  over  to  the  great  dogs  who  kept  watch  there 
ough  the  night.  The  prisoners  were  far  from  insensible 


2G8 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


or  iiD feeling;  their  ways  arose  out  of  the  condition  of  the 
time.  Similarly,  though  with  a Subtle  difference,  a species 
of  fervour  or  intoxication,  known,  without  doubt,  to  have 
led  some  persons  to  brave  the  guillotine  unnecessarily,  and 
to  die  by  it,  was  not  mere  boastfulness,  but  a wild  infec- 
tion of  the  wildly  shaken  public  mind.  In  seasons  of  pes- 
tilence, some  of  us  will  have  a secret  attraction  to  the  dis- 
ease— a terrible  passing  inclination  to  die  of  it.  And  all 
of  us  have  like  wonders  hidden  in  our  breasts,  only  need- 
ing circumstances  to  evoke  them. 

The  passage  to  the  Conciergerie  was  short  and  dark; 
the  night  in  its  vermin-haunted  cells  was  long  and  cold. 
ISText  day,  fifteen  prisoners  were  put  to  the  bar  before 
Charles  JDarnay’s  name  was  called.  All  the  fifteen  were 
condemned,  and  the  trials  of  the  whole  occupied  an  houi 
and  a half. 

Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,’’  was  at  length  ar- 
raigned. 

His  judges  sat  upon  the  Bench  in  feathered  hats;  but  the 
rough  red  cap  and  tricoloured  cockade  was  the  head-dress 
otherwise  prevailing.  Looking  at  the  Jury  and  the  tur- 
bulent audience,  he  might  have  thought  that  the  usual  ordei 
of  things  was  reversed,  and  that  the  felons  were  trying  th^ 
honest  men.  The  lowest,  cruelest,  and  worst  populace  oi 
a city,  never  without  its  quantity  of  low,  cruel,  and  bad. 
were  the  directing  spirits  of  the  scene  : noisily  commenting, 
applauding,  disapproving,  anticipating,  and  precipitating 
the  result,  without  a check.  Of  the  men,  the  greater  pan 
were  armed  in  various  ways;  of  the  women,  some  wore 
knives,  some  daggers,  some  ate  and  drank  as  they  looked 
on,  many  knitted.  Among  these  last,  was  one,  with  a spare 
piece  of  knitting  under  her  arm  as  she  worked.  She  was 
in  a front  row,  by  the  side  of  a man  whom  he  had  nevei 
seen  since  his  arrival  at  the  Barrier,  but  whom  he  direct!} 
remembered  as  Defarge.  He  noticed  that  she  once  or  twice 
whispered  in  his  ear,  and  that  she  seemed  to  be  his  wife; 
but,  what  he  most  noticed  in  the  two  figures  was,  that  al- 
though they  were  posted  as  close  to  himself  as  they  could 
be,  they  never  looked  towards  him.  They  seemed  to  b( 
waiting  for  something  with  a dogged  determination,  and 
they  looked  at  the  Jury,  but  at  nothing  else.  Under  the 
President  sat  Doctor  Manette,  in  his  usual  quiet  dressj 
As  well  as  the  prisoner  could  see,  he  and  Mr.  Lorry  were 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


269 


;he  only  men  there,  unconnected  with  the  Tribunal,  who 
yore  their  usual  clothes,  and  had  not  assumed  the  coarse 
,mrb  of  the  Carmagnole. 

Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,  was  accused  by  the 
niblic  prosecutor  as  an  emigrant,  whose  life  was  forfeit  to 
he  Kepublic,  under  the  decree  which  banished  all  emi- 
P’ants  on  pain  of  Death.  It  was  nothing  that  the  decree 
)ore  date  since  his  return  to  France.  There  he  was,  and 
here  was  the  decree;  he  had  been  taken  in  France,  and  his 
lead  was  demanded. 

^^Take  off  his  kead!’’  cried  the  audience.  ^^An  enemy 
0 the  Kepublic ! ” 

The  President  rang  his  bell  to  silence  those  cries,  and 
.sked  the  prisoner  whether  it  was  not  true  that  he  had 
ived  many  years  in  England? 

Undoubtedly  it  was. 

Was  he  not  an  emigrant  then?  What  did  he  call  him- 
elf? 

Not  an  emigrant,  he  hoped,  within  the  sense  and  spirit 
>f  the  law. 

Why  not?  the  President  desired  to  know. 

Because  he  had  voluntarily  relinquished  a title  that  was 
listasteful  to  him,  and  a station  that  was  distasteful  to 
dm,  and  had  left  his  country — he  submitted  before  the 
v^ord  emigrant  in  the  present  acceptation  by  the  Tribunal 
v’as  in  use — to  live  by  his  own  industry  in  England,  rather 
han  on  the  industry  of  the  overladen  people  of  France. 

What  proof  had  he  of  this? 

He  handed  in  the  names  of  two  witnesses;  Theophile 
labelle,  and  Alexandre  Manette. 

But  he  had  married  in  England?  the  President  reminded 
dm. 

True,  but  not  an  English  woman. 

A citizeness  of  France? 

Yes.  By  birth. 

Her  name  and  family? 

Lucie  Manette,  only  daughter  of  Doctor  Manette,  the 
ood  physician  who  sits  there.’’ 

This  answer  had  a happy  effect  upon  the  audience.  Cries 
a exaltation  of  the  well-known  good  physician  rent  the 
all.  So  capriciously  were  the  people  moved,  that  tears 
aimediately  rolled  down  several  ferocious  countenances 
^hich  had  been  glaring  at  the  prisoner  a moment  before. 


270 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


as  if  with  impatience  to  pluck  him  out  into  the  streets  and 
kill  him. 

On  these  few  steps  of  his  dangerous  way,  Charles  Dar- 
nay  had  set  his  foot  according  to  Doctor  Manette’s  reiter- 
ated instructions.  The  same  cautious  counsel  directed  every 
step  that  lay  before  him,  and  had  prepared  every  inch  of 
his  road. 

The  President  asked,  why  had  he  returned  to  France 
when  he  did,  and  not  sooner? 

He  had  not  returned  sooner,  he  replied,  simply  because 
he  had  no  means  of  living  in  France,  save  those  he  had  re- 
signed; whereas,  in  England,  he  lived  by  giving  instruc- 
tion in  the  French  language  and  literature.  He  had  re- 
turned when  he  did,  on  the  pressing  and  written  entreaty , 
of  a French  citizen,  who  represented  that  his  life  was  en- 
dangered by  his  absence.  He  had  come  back,  to  save  a 
citizen’s  life,  and  to  bear  his  testimony,  at  whatever  per- 
sonal hazard,  to  the  truth.  Was  that  criminal  in  the  eyes: 
of  the  Republic? 

The  populace  cried  enthusiastically,  “No!”  and  the! 
President  rang  his  bell  to  quiet  them.  Which  it  did  not,: 
for  they  continued  to  cry  “No!”  until  they  left  off,  of. 
their  own  will.  _ _ \ 

The  President  required  the  name  of  that  citizen?  The* 
accused  explained  that  the  citizen  was  his  first  witness.  | 
He  also  referred  with  confidence  to  the  citizen’s  letter, 
which  had  been  taken  from  him  at  the  Barrier,  but  which! 
he  did  not  doubt  would  be  found  among  the  papers  then 
before  the  President. 

The  Doctor  had  taken  care  that  it  should  be  there— hadj 
assured  him  that  it  would  be  there— and  at  this  stage  ol; 
the  proceedings  it  was  produced  and  read.  Citizen  Gabelk 
was  called  to  confirm  it,  and  did  so.  Citizen  Gabelk: 
hinted,  with  infinite  delicacy  and  politeness,  that  in  thd 
pressure  of  business  imposed  on  the  Tribunal  by  the  multij 
tude  of  enemies  of  the  Republic  with  which  it  had  to  dealj 
he  had  been  slightly  overlooked  in  his  prison  of  the  Ab|l 
baye— in  fact,  had  rather  passed  out  of  the  Tribunal’s  paj 
triotic  remembrance — until  three  days  ago;  when  he  hacji 
been  summoned  before  it,  and  had  been  set  at  liberty  oij 
the  Jury’s  declaring  tliemselves  satisfied  that  the  accusa 
tion  against  him  was  answered,  as  to  himself,  by  the  sur 
render  of  the  citizen  Evremonde,  called  Darnay. 


A-  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


273 


Liberty,  and  then  swelling  and  overflowing  out  into  the 
adjacent  streets,  and  along  the  river’s  bank,  and  over  the 
^ bridge,  the  Carmagnole  absorbed  them  every  one  and 
I whirled  them  away. 

I After  grasping  the  Doctor’s  hand,  as  he  stood  victorious 
and  proud  before  him;  after  grasping  the  hand  of  Mr. 
Lorry,  who  came  panting  in  breathless  from  his  struggle 
against  the  waterspout  of  the  Carmagnole;  after  kissing 
little  Lucie,  who  was  lifted  up  to  clasp  her  arms  round  his 
neck;  and  after  embracing  the  ever  zealous  and  faithful 
' Pross  who  lifted  her;  he  took  his  wife  in  his  arms,  and 
carried  her  up  to  their  rooms. 

■.  Lucie!  My  own!  I am  safe.” 

0 dearest  Charles,  let  me  thank  Grod  for  this  on  my 
^ knees  as  I have  prayed  to  Him.” 

They  all  reverently  bowed  their  heads  and  hearts. 

I When  she  was  again  in  his  arms,  he  said  to  her : 
i ^ And  now  speak  to  your  father,  dearest.  Ho  other  man 
in  all  this  France  could  have  done  what  he  has  done  for 
j me.” 

I She  laid  her  head  upon  her  father’s  breast,  as  she  had 
' laid  his  poor  head  on  her  own  breast,  long,  long  ago.  He 
r ^^PPy  fli6  return  he  had  made  her,  he  was  recom- 
pensed for  his  suffering,  he  was  proud  of  his  strength. 
You  must  not  be  weak,  my  darling,”  he  remonstrated; 
don’t  tremble  so.  I have  saved  him.” 


! CHAPTEE  VII. 

A KNOCK  AT  THE  DOOR. 

HAWE  saved  him.”  It  was  not  another  of  the  dreams 
in  which  he  had  often  come  back;  he  was  really  here. 
And  yet  his  wife  trembled,  and  a vague  but  heavy  fear 
; was  upon  her. 

All  the  air  round  was  so  thick  and  dark,  the  people  were 
rso  passionately  revengeful  and  fitful,  the  innocent  were  so 
constantly  put  to  death  on  vague  suspicion  and  black  malice, 
it  was  so  impossible  to  forget  that  many  as  blameless  as  her 
|*ihusband  and  as  dear  to  others  as  he  was  to  her,  every  day 
shared  the  fate  from  which  he  had  been  clutched,  that  her 


274 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


heart  could  not  be  as  lightened  of  its  load  as  she  felt  it 
ought  to  be.  The  shadows  of  the  wintry  afternoon  were 
beginning  to  fall,  and  even  now  the  dreadful  carts  were 
rolling  through  the  streets.  Her  mind  pursued  them,  look- 
ing for  him  among  the  Condemned;  and  then  she  clung 
closer  to  his  real  presence  and  trembled  more. 

Her  father,  cheering  her,  showed  a cpmpassionate  su- 
periority to  this  woman’s  weakness,  which  was  wonderful 
to  see.  No  garret,  no  shoemaking,  no  One  Hundred  and 
Five,  North  Tower,  now ! He  had  accomplished  the  task  he 
had  set  himself,  his  promise  was  redeemed,  he  had  saved 
Charles.  Let  them  all  lean  upon  him. 

Their  housekeeping  was  of  a very  frugal  kind : not  only 
because  that  was  the  safest  way  of  life,  involving  the  least 
offence  to  the  people,  but  because  they  were  not  rich,  and 
Charles,  throughout  his  imprisonment,  had  had  to  pay 
heavily  for  his  bad  food,  and  for  his  guard,  and  towards  i 
the  living  of  the  poorer  prisoners.  Partly  on  this  account 
and  partly  to  avoid  a domestic  spy,  they  kept  no  servant; 
the  citizen  and  citizeness  who  acted  as  porters  at  the  court- 
yard gate,  rendered  them  occasional  service;  and  Jerry 
(almost  wholly  transferred  to  them  by  Mr.  Lorry)  had  be- 
come their  daily  retainer,  and  had  his  bed  there  every 
night. 

It  was  an  ordinance  of  the  Eepublic  One  and  Indivisible 
of  Liberty,  Equality,  Fraternity,  or  Death,  that  on  the 
door  or  doorpost  of  every  house,  the  name  of  every  inmate 
must  be  legibly  inscribed  in  letters  of  a certain  size,  at  a 
certain  convenient  height  from  the  ground.  Mr,  Jerry 
Cruncher’s  name,  therefore,  duly  embellished  the  doorpost 
down  below;  and,  as  the  afternoon  shadows  deepened,  the 
owner  of  that  name  himself  appeared,  from  overlooking  a 
painter  whom  Doctor  Manette  had  employed  to  add  to  the 
list  the  name  of  Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay. 

In  the  universal  fear  and  distrust  that  darkened  the 
time,  all  the  usual  harmless  ways  of  life  were  changed.  In 
the  Doctor’s  little  household,  as  in  very  many  others,  the  i 
articles  of  daily  consumption  that  were  wanted  were  pur-  | 
chased  every  evening,  in  small  quantities  and  at  various 
small  shops.  To  avoid  attracting  notice,  and  to  give  as 
little  occasion  as  possible  for  talk  and  env}^,  was  the  gen- 
eral desire.  j 

For  some  months  past,  Miss  Pross  and  Mr.  Cruncher 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES 


275 


had  discharged  the  otfice  of  purveyors;  the  former  carrying 
the  money;  the  latter,  the  basket.  Every  afternoon  at 
about  the  time  when  the  public  lamps  were  lighted,  they 
fared  forth  on  this  duty,  and  made  and  brought  home  such 
purchases  as  were  needful.  Although  Miss  Pross,  through 
her  long  association  with  a French  family,  might  have 
known  as  much  of  their  language  as  of  her  own,  if  she  had 
had  a mind,  she  had  no  mind  in  that  direction;  conse- 
quently she  knew  no  more  of  that  “nonsense  ” (as  she  was 
pleased  to  call  it)  than  Mr.  Cruncher  did.  So  her  manner 
of  marketings  was  to  plump  a noun-substantive  at  the  head 
of  a shopkeeper  without  any  introduction  in  the  nature  of 
an  article,  and,  if  it  happened  not  to  be  the  name  of  the 
thing  she  wanted,  to  look  round  for  that  thing,  lay  hold  of 
it,  and  hold  on  by  it  until  the  bargain  was  concluded.  She 
always  made  a bargain  for  it,  by  holding  up,  as  a state- 
ment of  its  just  price,  one  finger  less  than  the  merchant 
held  up,  whatever  his  number  might  be. 

“Now,  Mr.  Cruncher,”  said  Miss  Pross,  whose  eyes  were 
red  with  felicity;  “if  you  are  ready,  I am.” 

Jerry  hoarsely  professed  himself  at  Miss  Press’s  service. 
He  had  worn  all  his  rust  oft  long  ago,  but  nothing  would 
file  his  spiky  head  down. 

“There’s  all  manner  of  things  wanted,”  said  Miss  Pross, 
“ and  we  shall  have  a precious  time  of  it.  We  want  wine, 
among  the  rest.  Nice  toasts  these  Redheads  will  be  drink- 
ing, wherever  we  buy  it.” 

“ It  will  be  much  the  same  to  your  knowledge,  miss,  I 
should  think,”  retorted  Jerry,  “whether  they  drink  your 
health  or  the  Old  Un’s.” 

“ Who’s  he?  ” said  Miss  Pross. 

Mr.  Cruncher,  with  some  diffidence,  explained  himself 
as  meaning  “Old  Nick’s.” 

“Ha!  ” said  Miss  Pross,  “it  doesn’t  need  an  interpreter 
to  explain  the  meaning  of  these  creatures.  They  have  but 
one,  and  it’s  Midnight  Murder,  and  Mischief.” 

“ Hush,  dear  I Pray,  pray,  be  cautious ! ” cried  Lucie. 

“Yes,  yes,  yes.  I’ll  be  cautious,”  said  Miss  Pross;  “but 
I m'ay  say  among  ourselves,  that  I do  hope  there  will  be 
no  oniony  and  tobaccoey  smotherings  in  the  form  of  em- 
bracings all  round,  going  on  'in  the  streets.  Now,  Lady- 
bird, never  you  stir  from  that  fire  till  I come  back ! Take 
care  of  the  dear  husband  you  have  recovered,  and  don’t 


276 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


move  your  pretty  head  from  his  shoulder  as  you  ^ve  it 
now,  till  you  see  me  again ! May  I ask  a question,  Doctoi 

Manette,  before  I go?  ^ i.  a 

“ I think  you  may  take  that  liberty,  the  Doctor  answered, 

“For  gracious  sake,  don’t  talk  about  Liberty;  we  have 
quite  enough  of  that,”  said  Miss  Pross. 

“Hush,  dear!  Again?  ” Lucie  remonstrated. 

“ Well  my  sweet,”  said  Miss  Pross,  nodding  her  head 
emphatically,  “the  short  and  the  long  of  it  is,  that  I am 
a select  of  His  Most  Gracious  Majesty  King  George  the 
Third-  ’’  Miss  Pross  curtseyed  at  the  name;  and  as  such, 
my  maxim  is.  Confound  their 

ish  tricks,  On  him  our  hopes  we  fix,  God  save  the  King. ^ 
Mr.  Cruncher,  in  an  access  of  loyalty,  growlingly  re- 
peated the  words  after  Miss  Pross,  like  somebody  at 

church.^  glad  you  have  so  much  of  the  Englishman  m you, 
though  I wish  you  had  never  taken  that  cold  in  your 
7oL,”  said  Miss^ Pross,  approvingly.  “But  the  ques  ion 
Doctor  Manette.  Is  there  ”-it  was  the  good  c^ature  s 
way  to  affect  to  make  light  of  anything  that  was  a grea 
anxiety  with  them  all,  and  to  come  at  it  in  this  chance 
manner— “is  there  any  prospect  yet,  of  our  getting  out  o 

“ I'fear  not  yet.  It  would  be  dangerous  for  Charles  yet. 

“ Heigh-ho-hum ! ” said  Miss  Pross,  cheerfully  repre^^- 
ing  a sigh  as  she  glanced  at  her  darling’s  golden  hair  in  the 
liffht  of  the  fire,  “then  we  must  have  patience  and  wait, 
that’s  all.  We  must  hold  up  our  heads  and  fight 
my  brother  Solomon  used  to  say.  Now,  Mr.  Cruncher. 

Lucie.  a..d  hev  husband,  hec 

fatherf  and  the  child,  by  a bright  fire.  Mr. 
nected  back  presently  from  the  Banking  House.  Miss 
Pross  had  lighted  the  lamp,  but  had  put  it  aside  m a cor- 
ner that  they  might  enjoy  the  fire-light  undistuibed.  L 
He  LucS  sat  by  her  grandfather  with  her  hands  claped 
through  his  arm:  and  he,  m a tone  not  rising  much  ahoy 
a whisper,  began  to  tell  her  a story  of  a great  and  poweiful 
Fairy  Sho  had  opened  a prison-wall  and  let  out  a captive 
who  had  once  done  the  Fairy  a service,  f 

and  quiet,  and  Lucie  was  more  at  ease  than  she  hai  bee  . 


-272  A TALE  OF  TAVO  LCITIES. 


of  the  Eepublic,  forasmuch  as  they  had  not  assisted  it  by 
word  or  deed.  So  quick  was  the  Tribunal  to  compensate 
itself  and  the  nation  for  a chance  lost,  that  these  five  came 
down  to  him  before  he  left  the  place,  condemned  to  die 
within  twenty-four  hours.  The  first  of  them  told  him  so, 
with  the  customary  prison  sign  of  Death— aTraised  finger— 
and  they  all  added  in  words,  Long  live  the  Republic ! ” 

The  five  had  had,  it  is  true,  no  audience  to  lengthen 
their  proceedings,  for  when  he  and  Doctor  Manette  emerged 
from  the  gate,  there  was  a great  crowd  about  it,  in  which 
there  seemed  to  be  every  face  he  had  seen  in  Court — except 
two,  for  which  he  looked  in  vain.  On  his  coming  out,  tl^ 
concourse  made  at  him  anew,  weeping,  embracing,  and 
shouting,  all  by  turns  and  all  together,  until  the  very  tide 
of  the  river  on  the  bank  of  which  the  mad  scene  was  acted, 
seemed  to  run  mad,  like  the  people  on  the  shore.' 

They  put  him  into  a great  chair  they  had  among  them, 
and  which  they  had  taken  either  out  of  the  Court  itself,  or 
one  of  its  rooms  or  passages.  Over  the  chair  they  had 
thrown  a red  flag,  and  to  the  back  of  it  they  had  bound  a 
pike  with  a red  cap  on  its  top.  In  this  car  of  triumph,  not 
even  the  Doctor^s  entreaties  could  prevent  his  being  carried 
to  his  home  on  men's  shoulders,  with  a confused  sea  of 
red  caps  heaving  about  him,  and  casting  up  to  sight  from 
the  stormy  deep  such  wrecks  of  faces,  that  he  more  than 
once  misdoubted  his  mind  being  in  confusion,  and  that  he 
was  in  the  tumbril  on  his  way  to  the  Guillotine. 

In  wild  dreamlike  procession,  embracing  whom  they  met 
and  pointing  him  out,  they  carried  him  on.  Reddening  the 
snowy  streets  with  the  prevailing  Republican  colour,  in 
winding  and  tramping  through  them,  as  they  had  reddened 
them  below  the  snow  with  a deeper  dye,  they  carried  him 
thus  into  the  courtyard  of  the  building  where  he  lived. 
Her  father  had  gone  on  before,  to  prepare  her,  and  when 
her  husband  stood  upon  his  feet,  she  dropped  insensible  in 
his  arms. 

As  he  held  her  to  his  heart  and  turned  her  beautiful 
head  between  his  face  and  the  brawling  crowd,  so  that  his 
tears  and  her  lips  might  come  together  unseen,  a few  of 
the  people  fell  to  dancing.  Instantly,  all  the  rest  fell  to 
dancing,  and  the  courtyard  overflowed  with  the  Carmag- 
nole. Then,  they  elevated  into  the  vacant  chair  a young 
woman  from  the  crowd  to  be  carried  as  the  Goddess  of 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


271 


Doctor  Manette  was  next  questioned.  His  high  personal 
popularity,  and  the  clearness  of  his  answers,  made  a great 
impression;  but,  as  he  proceeded,  as  he  showed  that  the 
Accused  was  his  first  friend  on  his  release  from  his  long 
imprisonment;  that,  the  accused  had  remained  in  England, 
always  faithful  and  devoted  to  his  daughter  and  himself  in 
their  exile;  that,  so  far  from  being  in  favour  with  the 
Aristocrat  government  there,  he  had  actually  been  tried  for 
his  life  by  it,  as  the  foe  of  England  and  friend  of  the 
United  States— as  he  brought  these  circumstances  into 
view,  with  the  greatest  discretion  and  with  the  straightfor- 
ward force  of  truth  and  earnestness,  the  Jury  and  the  pop- 
ulace became  one.  At  last,  when  he  appealed  by  name  to 
Monsieur  Lorry,  an  English  gentleman  then  and  there  pres- 
ent, who,  like  himself,  had  been  a witness  on  that  English 
trial  and  could  corroborate  his  account  of  it,  the  Jury  de- 
clared that  they  had  heard  enough,  and  that  they  were 
ready  with  their  votes  if  the  President  were  content  to  re- 
ceive them.  . 

At  every  vote  (the  Jurymen  voted  aloud  and  individu- 
ally), the  populace  set  up  a shout  of  applause.  All  the 
voices  were  in  the  prisoner’s  favour,  and  the  President  de- 
clared him  free. 

Then,  began  one  of  those  extraordinary  scenes  with 
which  the  populace  sometimes  gratified  their  fickleness,  or 
their  better  impulses  towards  generosity  and  mercy,  or 
which  they  regarded  as  some  set-off  against  their  swollen 
account  of  cruel  rage.  Ho  man  can  decide  now  to  which 
of  these  motives  such  extraordinary  scenes  were  referable; 
it  is  probable,  to  a blending  of  all  the  three,  with  the  second 
predominating.  Ho  sooner  was  the  acquittal  pronounced, 
than  tears  were  shed  as  freely  as  blood  at  another  time, 
and  such  fraternal  embraces  were  bestowed  upon  the  pris- 
oner by  as  many  of  both  sexes  as  could  rush  at  him,  that 
after  his  long  and  unwholesome  confinement  he  was  in 
"danger  of  fainttng~Lrom  exhaustion;  none  the  less  because 
he  knew  very  well,  that  the  very  same  people,  carried  by 
another  current,  would  have  rushed  at  him  with  the  very 
same  intensity,  to  rend  him  to  pieces  and  strew  him  over 
the  streets. 

His  removal,  to  make  rvay  for  other  accused  persons  who 
“were-to  be  tried,  rescued  him  from  these  caresses  for  t^e^ 
moment.  ” Five  were  to  be  fried  together,  next,  as  enemies 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


277 


“What  is  that?  ” she  cried,  all  at  once. 

“My  dear!”  said  her  father,  stopping  in  his  story,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  hers,  “ command  yourself.  What  a dis- 
: ordered  state  you  are  in ! The  least  thing— nothing— star- 
' ties  you ! You,  your  father’s  daughter ! ” 

• u father,”  said  Lucie,  excusing  herself, 

' with  a pale  face  and  in  a faltering  voice,  “ that  I heard 
strange  feet  upon  the  stairs.” 

’■  “My  love,  the  staircase  is  as  still  as  Death.” 

As  he  said  the  word  a blow  was  struck  upon  the  door. 

Oh  father,  father.  What  can  this  be ! Hide  Charles 
'Save  him ! ” 

j “My  child,”  said  the  Doctor,  rising,  and  laying  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder,  “ I have  saved  him.  What  weakness  is 
this,  my  dear!  Let  me  go  to  the  door.” 

. He  took  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  crossed  the  two  interven- 
lliig  outer  rooms,  and  opened  it,  A rude  clattering  of  feet 
over  the  floor,  and  four  rough  men  in  red  caps,  armed  with 
jsabres  aud  pistols,  entered  the  room. 

' !!  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,”  said  the  first. 

vV  ho  seeks  him?  ” answered  Darnay. 

I seek  him.  We  seek  him.  I know  you,  Evremonde; 

I saw  you  before  the  Tribunal  to-day.  You  are  again  the 
prisoner  of  the  Eepublic.” 

The  four  surrounded  him,  where  he  stood  with  his  wife 
ind  child  clinging  to  him. 

‘I  Tell  me  how  and  why  am  I again  a prisoner?  ” 

It  is  enough  that  you  return  straight  to  the  Concier- 
jeiie,  and  will  know  to-morrow.  You  are  summoned  for 
lO-morrow.’^ 

Doctor  Manette,  whom  this  visitation  had  so  turned  into 
| tone,  that  he  stood  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  as  if  he 
vere  a statue  made  to  hold  it,  moved  after  these  words 
vere  spoken,  put  the  lamp  down,  and  confronting  the 
peaker,  and  taking  him,  notnngently,  by  the  loose  front  of 
|US  red  woollen  shirt,  said : 

“ You  know  him,  yon  have  said.  Do  you  know  me?  ” 

, Yes,  I know  you.  Citizen  Doctor.” 

“We  all  know  you.  Citizen  Doctor,”  said  the  other  three. 
He  looked  abstractedly  from  one  to  another,  and  said, 

1 a lower  voice,  after  a pause : 

A,  “ Will  you  answer  his  question  to  me  then?  How  does 
IAS  happen? 


278 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


^‘Citizen  Doctor/’  said  the  first,  reluctantly,  ‘‘he  has 
been  denounced  to  the  Section  of  Saint  Antoine.  This  citi- 
zen,” pointing  out  the  second  who  had  entered,  “is  from 
Saint  Antoine.” 

The  citizen  here  indicated  nodded  his  head,  and  added : 
“He  is  accused  by  Saint  Antoine.” 

“ Of  what?  ” asked  the  Doctor. 

“Citizen  Doctor,”  said  the  first,  with  his  former  reluct- 
ance, “ ask  no  more.  If  the  Republic  demands  sacrifices 
from  you,  without  doubt  you  as  a good  patriot  will  be 
happy  to  make  them.  The  Republic  goes  before  all.  The 
People  is  supreme.  Evremonde,  we  are  pressed.” 

“One  word,”  the  Doctor  entreated.  “Will  you  tell  me 
who  denounced  him?  ” 

“It  is  against  rule,”  answered  the  first;  “but  you  can 
ask  Him  of  Saint  Antoine  here.” 

The  Doctor  turned  his  eyes  upon  that  man.  Who  moved 
uneasily  on  his  feet,  rubbed  his  beard  a little,  and  at 
length  said : 

“Well!  Truly  it  is  against  rule.  But  he  is  denounced 
—and  gravely — by  the  Citizen  and  Citizeness  Defarge. 
And  by  one  other.” 

“ What  other?  ” 

“ Do  you  ask.  Citizen  Doctor?  ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Then,”  said  he  of  Saint  Antoine,  with  a strange  look, 
“you  will  be  answered  to-morrow.  Now,  I am  dumb!  ” 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A HAND  AT  CARDS. 

Happily  unconscious  of  the  new  calamity  at  home.  Miss 
Pross  threaded  her  way  along  the  narrow  streets  and 
crossed  the  river  by  the  bridge  of  the  Pont-Neuf,  reckon- 
ing in  her  mind  the  number  of  indispensable  purchases  she 
had  to  make.  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  the  basket,  walked  at 
her  side.  They  both  looked  to  the  right  and  to  the  left 
into  most  of  the  shops  they  passed,  had  a wary  eye  for  all 
gregarious  assemblages  of  people,  and  turned  out  of  their 


“YOU  ARE  AGAIN  THE  PRISONER  OF  THE 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


279 


road  to  avoid  any  very  excited  group  of  talkers.  It  was  a 
raw  evening,  and  the  misty  river,  blurred  to  the  eye  with 
blazing  lights  and  to  the  ear  with  harsh  noises,  showed 
where  the  barges  were  stationed  in  which  the  smiths 
worked,  making  guns  for  the  Army  of  the  Eepublic.  Woe 
to  the  man  who  played  tricks  with  that  Army,  or  got  un- 
deserved promotion  in  it!  Better  for  him  that  his  beard 
had  never  grown,  for  the  National  Razor  shaved  him  close. 

Having  purchased  a few  small  articles  of  grocery,  and  a 
measure  of  oil  for  the  lamp.  Miss  Pross  bethought  herself 
of  the  wine  they  wanted.  After  peeping  into  several  wine- 
shops, she  stopped  at  the  sign  of  the  The  Good  Republican 
Brutus  of  Antiquity,  not  far  from  the  National  Palace 
once  (and  twice)  the  Tuileries,  where  the  aspect  of  things 
rather  took  her  fancy.  It  had  a quieter  look  than  any 
other  place  of  the  same  description  they  had  passed,  and, 
though  red  with  patriotic  caps,  was  not  so  red  as  the  rest. 
Sounding  Mr.  Cruncher,  and  finding  him  of  her  opinion 
Miss  Pross  resorted  to  The  Good  Republican  Brutus  of  An- 
tiquity, attended  by  her  cavalier. 

Slightly  observant  of  the  smoky  lights;  of  the  people, 
pipe  in  mouth,  playing  with  limp  cards  and  yellow  dom- 
inoes; of  the  one  bare-breasted,  bare-armed,  soot-begrimed 
workman  reading  a journal  aloud,  and  of  the  others  listen- 
ing to  him;  of  the  weapons  worn,  or  laid  aside  to  be  re- 
sumed; of  the  two  or  three  customers  fallen  forward  asleep 
who  in  the  popular  high-shouldered  shaggy  black  spencer 
looked,  in  that  attitude,  like  slumbering  bears  or  dogs;  the 
two  outlandish  customers  approached  the  counter,  ’ and 
snowed  what  they  wanted. 

As  their  wine  was  measuring  out,  a man  parted  from  an- 
other man,  in  a corner,  and  rose  to  depart.  In  going,  he 
had  to  face  Miss  Pross.  No  sooner  did  he  face  her,  than 
Miss  Pross  uttered  a scream,  and  clapped  her  hands. 

In  a moment,  the  whole  company  were  on  their  feet, 
ihat  somebody  was  assassinated  by  somebody  vindicating 
11  difference  of  opinion  was  the  likeliest  occurrence.  Every- 
oody  looked  to  see  somebody  fall,  but  only  saw  a man  and 
1 woman  standing  staring  at  each  other;  the  man  with  all 
me  outward  aspect  of  a Frenchman  and  a thorough  Repub- 
ican;  the  woman,  evidently  English. 

What  was  said  in  this  disappointing  anti-climax,  by  the 
lisciples  of  the  Good  Republican  Brutus  of  Antiquity,  ex- 


280 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


cept  that  it  was  something  very  voluble  and  loud,  would 
have  been  as  so  much  Hebrew  or  Chaldean  to  Miss  Pross 
and  her  protector,  though  they  had  been  all  ears.  But, 
they  had  no  ears  for  anything  in  their  surprise.  For,  it 
must  be  recorded,  that  not  only  was  Miss  Pross  lost  in 
amazement  and  agitation,  but,  Mr.  Cruncher — though  it 
seemed  on  his  own  separate  and  individual  account — was 
in  a state  of  the  greatest  wonder. 

“ What  is  the  matter?  ” said  the  man  who  had  caused 
Miss  Pross  to  scream;  speaking  in  a vexed,  abrupt  voice 
(though  in  a low  tone),  and  in  English. 

“ Oh,  Solomon,  dear  Solomon ! ” cried  Miss  Pross,  clap- 
ping her  hands  again.  “After  not  setting  eyes  upon  you 
or  hearing  of  you  for  so  long  a time,  do  I find  you  here ! ” 

“Don’t  call  me  Solomon.  Do  you  want  to  be  the  death 
of  me?  ” asked  the  man,  in  a furtive,  frightened  way. 

“ Brother,  brother ! ” cried  Miss  Pross,  bursting  into  tears. 
“ Have  I ever  been  so  hard  with  you  that  you  ask  me  such 
a cruel  question?  ” 

“Then  hold  your  meddlesome  tongue,”  said  Solomon, 
“ and  come  out,  if  you  want  to  speak  to  me.  Pay  for  your 
wine,  and  come  out.  Who’s  this  man?  ” 

Miss  Pross,  shaking  her  loving  and  dejected  head  at  her 
by  no  means  affectionate  brother,  said  through  her  tears, 
“Mr.  Cruncher.” 

“Let  him  come  out  too,”  said  Solomon.  “Does  he  think 
me  a ghost?  ” 

Apparently,  Mr.  Cruncher  did,  to  judge  from  his  looks. 
He  said  not  a word,  however,  and  Miss  Pross,  exploring 
the  depths  of  her  reticule  through  her  tears  with  great 
difficulty  paid  for  her  wine.  As  she  did  so,  Solomon  turned 
to  the  followers  of  the  Good  Republican  Brutus  of  An- 
tiquity, and  offered  a few  words  of  explanation  in  the 
French  language,  which  caused  them  all  to  relapse  into 
their  former  places  and  pursuits. 

“Now,”  said  Solomon,  stopping  at  the  dark  street  corner, 
“ what  do  you  want?  ” 

“ How  dreadfully  unkind  in  a brother  nothing  has  ever 
turned  my  love  away  from ! ” cried  Miss  Pross,  “ to  give 
me  such  a greeting,  and  show  me  no  affection.” 

“There.  Con-found  it!  There,”  said  Solomon,  mak- 
ing a dab  at  Miss  Pross’s  lips  with  his  own  “Now  are 
you  content?  ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


281 


Miss  Pross  only  shook  her  head  and  wept  in  silence. 

“If  you  expect  me  to  be  surprised,”  said  her  brother 
Solomon,  “I  am  not  surprised;  I knew  you  were  here;  I 
know  of  most  people  who  are  here.  If  you  really  don’t 
want  to  endanger  my  existence— which  I half  believe  you 
do  go  your  ways  as  soon  as  possible,  and  let  me  go  mine. 
1 am  busy.  I am  an  official.” 

“My  English  brother  Solomon,”  mourned  Miss  Pross, 
casting  up  her  tear-fraught  eyes,  “ that  had  the  makings  in 
him  of  one  of  the  best  and  greatest  of  men  in  his  native 
country,  an  official  among  foreigners,  and  such  foreigners! 
I would  almost  sooner  have  seen  the  dear  boy  lying  in 
his ” J J s> 

“ I said  so !”  cried  her  brother,  interrupting.  “I  knew 
It.  You  want  to  be  the  death  of  me.  I shall  be  rendered 
Suspected,  by  my  own  sister.  Just  as  I am  getting  on ! ” 

, “ The  gracious  and  merciful  Heavens  forbid ! ” cried  Miss 

Pross.  Ear  rather  would  I never  see  you  again,  dear 
Solomon,  though  I have  ever  loved  you  truly,  and  ever 
jShall.  Say  but  one  affectionate  word  to  me,  and  tell  me 
there  is  nothing  angry  or  estranged  between  us,  and  I will 
detain  you  no  longer.” 

Good  Miss  Pross  I As  if  the  estangement  between  them 
had  come  of  any  culpability  of  hers.  As  if  Mr.  Lorry  had 
QOt  known  it  for  a fact,  years  ago,  in  the  quiet  comer  in 
5oho,  that  this  precious  brother  had  spent  her  money  and 
left  her ! *' 

He  was  saying  the  affectionate  word,  howeyer,  with  a 
tar  more  grudging  condescension  and  patronage  than  he 
jould  have  shown  if  their  relative  merits  and  positions  had 
leen  reversed  (which  is  invariably  the  case,  all  the  world 
)ver),  when  Mr.  Cruncher,  touching  him  on  the  .shoulder, 
loarsely  and  unexpectedly  interposed  with  the  following 
.lingular  question : ® 

I ^y ! Might  I ask  the  favour?  As  to  whether  your 
lame  is  John  Solomon,  or  Solomon  John?” 

The  official  turned  towards  him  with  sudden  distrust, 
ie  had  not  preyiously  uttered  a word. 

^^'^‘^her.  “ Speak  out,  you  know.” 

Which,  by  the  way,  was  more  than  he  could  do  himself.) 
John  Solomon,  or  Solomon  John?  She  calls  you  Solo- 
ion,  and  she  must  know,  being  your  sister.  And  I know 
on  re  John,  you  know.  Which  of  the  two  goes  first? 


282 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


And  regarding  that  name  of  Pross,  likewise.  That  warn^t 
your  name  over  the  water.’’ 

What  do  you  mean?  ” 

“ Well,  I don’t  know  all  I mean,  for  I can’t  call  to  mind 
what  your  name  was,  over  the  water.” 

No?  ” 

‘^No.  But  I’ll  swear  it  was  a name  of  two  syllables.” 
Indeed?  ” 

^^Yes.  T’other  one’s  was  one  syllable.  I know  you. 
You  was  a spy- witness  at  the  Bailey.  What,  in  the  name 
of  the  Father  of  Lies,  own  father  to  yourself,  was  you 
called  at  that  time?  ” 

^^Barsad,”  said  another  voice,  striking  in. 

‘^That’s  the  name  for  a thousand  pound!  ” cried  Jerry. 

The  speaker  who  struck  in,  was  Sydney  Carton.  He  had 
his  hands  behind  him  under  the  skirts  of  his  riding-coat, 
and  he  stood  at  Mr.  Cruncher’s  elbow  as  negligently  as  he 
might  have  stood  at  the  Old  Bailey  itself. 

Don’t  be  alarmed,  my  dear  Miss  Pross.  I arrived  at 
Mr.  Lorry’s,  to  his  surprise,  yesterday  evening;  we  agreed 
that  I would  not  present  myself  elsewhere  until  all  was 
well,  or  unless  I could  be  useful;  I present  myself  here,  to 
beg  a little  talk  with  your  brother.  I wish  you  had  a bet- 
ter employed  brother  than  Mr.  Barsad.  I wish  for  your 
sake  Mr.  Barsad  was  not  a Sheep  of  the  Prisons.” 

Sheep  was  a cant  word  of  the  time  for  a spy,  under  the 
gaolers.  The  spy,  who  was  pale,  turned  paler,  and  asked 
him  how  he  dared — 

^‘I’ll  tell  you,”  said  Sydney.  ‘‘I  lighted  on  you,  Mr. 
Barsad,  coming  out  of  the  prison  of  the  Conciergerie  while 
I was  contemplating  the  walls,  an  hour  or  more  ago.  You 
have  a face  to  be  remembered,  and  I remember  faces  well. 
Made  curious  by  seeing  you  in  that  connection,  and  having 
a reason,  to  which  you  are  no  stranger,  for  associating  you 
with  the  misfortunes  of  a friend  now  very  unfortunate,  I 
walked  in  your  direction.  I walked  into  the  wine-shop 
here,  close  after  you,  and  sat  near  you.  I had  no  difficulty 
in  deducing  from  your  unreserved  conversation,  and  the 
rumour  openly  going  about  among  your  admirers,  the  na- 
ture of  your  calling.  And  gradually,  what  I had  done  at 
random,  seemed  to  shape  itself  into  a purpose,  Mr.  Bar- 
sad.” 

‘‘What  purpose?”  the  spy  asked. 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


283 


‘‘It  would  be  troublesome,  and  might  be  dangerous,  to 
explain  in  the  street.  Could  you  favour  me,  in  confidence, 
with  some  minutes  of  3^our  company — at  the  office  of  Tell- 
soiPs  Bank,  for  instance?  ’’ 

“ Under  a threat? 

“ Oh ! Did  I say  that?  ” 

“Then,  why  should  I go  there?’’ 

“Really,  Mr.  Barsad,  I can’t  say,  if  you  can’t.” 

“Do  you  mean  that  you  won’t  say,  sir?  ” the  spy  irreso- 
lutely asked. 

“ You  apprehend  me  very  clearly,  Mr.  Barsad.  I won’t.” 

Carton’s  negligent  recklessness  of  manner  came  power- 
fully in  aid  of  his  quickness  and  skill,  in  such  a business 
as  he  had  in  his  secret  mind,  and  with  such  a man  as  he 
had  to  do  with.  His  practised  eye  saw  it,  and  made  the 
most  of  it. 

“How,  I told  you  so,”  said  the  spy,  casting  a reproach- 
ful look  at  his  sister;  “if  any  trouble  comes  of  this,  it’s 
your  doing.” 

“ Come,  come,  Mr.  Barsad ! ” exclaimed  Sydney.  “ Don’t 
be  ungrateful.  But  for  my  great  respect  for  your  sister,  I 
might  not  have  led  up  so  pleasantly  to  a little  proposal 
that  I wish  to  make  for  our  mutual  satisfaction.  Do  you 
go  with  me  to  the  Bank?  ” 

“I’ll  hear  what  you  have  got  to  say.  Yes,  I’ll  go  with 
you.  ” 

“ I propose  that  we  first  conduct  your  sister  safely  to  the 
corner  of  her  own  street.  Let  me  take  your  arm.  Miss 
Pross.  This  is  not  a good  city,  at  this  time,  for  you  to  be 
out  in,  unprotected;  and  as  your  escort  knows  Mr.  Barsad, 

I will  invite  him  to  Mr.  Lorry’s  with  us.  Are  we  ready? 
Come  then ! ” 

Miss  Pross  recalled  soon  afterwards,  and  to  the  end  of 
her  life  remembered,  that  as  she  pressed  her  hands  on 
Sydney’s  arm  and  looked  up  in  his  face,  imploring  him  to 
do  no  hurt  to  Solomon,  there  was  a braced  purpose  in  the 
arm  and  a kind  of  inspiration  in  the  eyes,  which  not  only 
contradicted  his  light  manner,  but  changed  and  raised  the 
man.  She  was  too  much  occupied  then  with  fears  for  the 
brother  who  so  little  deserved  her  affection,  and  with  Syd- 
ney’s friendly  reassurances,  adequately  to  heed  what  she 
observed. 

They  left  her  at  her  corner  of  the  street,  and  Carton  led 


284 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


the  way  to  Mr.  Lorry’s,  whicli  was  within  a few  minutes’ 
walk.  John  Barsad,  or  Solomon  Pross,  walked  at  his 
side. 

Mr.  Lorry  had  just  finished  his  dinner,  and  was  sitting 
before  a cheery  little  log  or  two  of  fire— perhaps  looking 
into  their  blaze  for  the  picture  of  that  younger  elderly  gen- 
tleman from  Tellson’s,  who  had  looked  into  the  red  coals 
at  the  Royal  George  at  Dover,  now  a good  many  years  ago. 
He  turned  his  head  as  they  entered,  and  showed  the  sur- 
prise with  which  he  saw  a stranger. 

Miss  Press’s  brother,  sir,”  said  Sydney.  Mr.  Bar- 
sad  ” 

“Barsad?”  repeated  the  old  gentleman,  “Barsad?  I 
have  an  association  with  the  name — and  with  the  face.” 

“I  told  you  you  had  a remarkable  face,  Mr.  Barsad,” 
observed  Carton,  coolly.  “Pray  sit  down.” 

As  he  took  a chair  himself,  he  supplied  the  link  that  Mr. 
Lorry  wanted,  by  saying  to  him  with  a frown,  “ Witness  at 
that  trial.”  Mr.  Lorry  immediately  remembered,  and  re- 
garded his  new  visitor  with  an  undisguised  look  of  abhor- 
rcnc© . 

“ Mr.  Barsad  has  been  recognised  by  Miss  Pross  as  the 
affectionate  brother  you  have  heard  of,”  said  Sydney,  ^^and 
has  acknowledged  the  relationship.  I pass  to  worse  news. 
Darnay  has  been  arrested  again.” 

Struck  with  consternation,  the  old  gentleman  exclaimed. 

What  do  you  tell  me ! I left  him  safe  and  free  within 
these  two  hours,  and  am  about  to  return  to  him ! ” 

Arrested  for  all  that.  When  was  it  done,  Mr.  Bar- 
sad?  ” 

Just  now,  if  at  all.” 

''Mr.  Barsad  is  the  best  authority  possible,  sir,”  said 
Sydney,  "and  I have  it  from  Mr.  Barsad’s  communication 
to  a friend  and  brother  Sheep  over  a bottle  of  wine,  that 
the  arrest  has  taken  place.  He  left  the  messengers  at  the 
gate,  and  saw  them  admitted  by  the  porter.  There  is  no 
earthly  doubt  that  he  is  retaken.” 

Mr.  Lorry’s  business  eye  read  in  the  speaker’s  face  that 
it  was  loss  of  time  to  dwell  upon  the  point.  ^ Confused, 
but  sensible  that  something  might  depend  on  his  presence 
of  mind,  he  commanded  himself,  and  was  silently  atten- 
tive. 

"Now,  I trust,”  said  Sydney  to  him,  "that  the  name 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


285 


and  inflii6iic6  of  Doctor  Manettc  may  stand  Lim  in  as  good 
stead  to-morrow— you  said  he  would  be  before  the  Tribimal 
again  to-morrow,  Mr.  Barsad? ” 

“Yes;  I believe  so.” 

“ — III  as  good  stead  to-morrow  as  to-day.  But  it  may 
not  be  so.  I own  to  you,  I am  shaken,  Mr.  Lorry,  by  Doc- 
tor Manette’s  not  having  had  the  power  to  prevent  this 
arrest.” 

“He  may  not  have  known  of  it  beforehand,”  said  Mr. 
Lorry. 

But  that  very  circumstance  would  be  alarming,  when 
we^remember  how  identified  he  is  with  his  son-in-law.’^ 
That’s  true,”  Mr.  Lorry  acknowledged,  with  his  trou- 
bled hand  at  his  chin,  and  his  troubled  eyes  on  Carton. 

''In  short,”  said  Sydney,  ''this  is  a desperate  time,  when 
desperate  games  are  played  for  desperate  stakes.  Let  the 
Doctor  play  the  winning  game;  I will  play  the  losing  one. 
No  man  s life  here  is  worth  purchase.  Any  one  carried  home 
: by  the  people  to-day,  may  be  condemned  to-morrow.  Now, 
i the  stake  I have  resolved  to  play  for,  in  case  of  the  worst’ 
IS  a friend  in  the  Conciergerie.  And  the  friend  I purpose 
to  myself  to  win,  is  Mr.  Barsad.” 

^'1  You  need  have  good  cards,  sir,”  said  the  spy. 

"I’ll  run  them  over.  I’ll  see  what  I hold, — Mr.  Lorry, 
you  know  what  a brute  I am;  I wish  you’d  give  me  a little 
brandy.” 

It  was  put  before  him,  and  he  drank  off  a glassful— 
drank  off  another  glassful  -pushed  the  bottle  thoughtfullv 
away. 

“Mr.  Barsad,”  he  went  on,  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
really  was  looking  over  a hand  at  cards : “ Sheep  of  the 
prisons,  emissary  of  Republican  committees,  now  turnkey, 
now  prisoner,  always  spy  and  secret  informer,  so  much  the 
more  valuable  here  for  being  English  that  an  Englishman 
IS  less  open  to  suspicion  of  subornation  in  those  characters 
ithan  a Frenchman,  represents  himself  to  his  employers 
mder  a false  name.  That’s  a very  good  card.  Mr.  Bar- 
sad,  now  in  the  employ  of  the  republican  French  govern- 
nent,  was  formerly  in  the  employ  of  the  aristoeratic  Eng- 
ish  government,  the  enemy  of  France  and  freedom.  That’s 
m excellent  card.  Inference  clear  as  day  in  this  region  of 
mspicion,  that  Mr.  Barsad,  still  in  the  pay  of  the  aristo- 
a-atic  English  government,  is  the  spy  of  Pitt,  the  treacher- 


286 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


ous  foe  of  the  Republic  crouching  in  its  bosom,  the  English 
traitor  and  agent  of  all  mischief  so  much  spoken  of  and  so 
difficult  to  find.  That’s  a card  not  to  be  beaten.  Have  you 
followed  my  hand,  Mr.  Barsad?  ” 

‘‘Not  to  understand  your  play,”  returned  the  spy,  some- 
what uneasily. 

“I  play  my  Ace,  Denunciation  of  Mr.  Barsad  to  the 
nearest  Section  Committee.  Look  over  your  hand,  Mr. 
Barsad,  and  see  what  you  have.  Don’t  hurry.” 

He  drew  the  bottle  near,  poured  out  another  glassful  of 
brandy,  and  drank  it  off.  He  saw  that  the  spy  was  fear- 
ful of  his  drinking  himself  into  a fit  state  for  the  imme- 
diate denunciation  of  him.  Seeing  it,  he  poured  out  and 
drank  another  glassful. 

“Look  over  your  hand  carefully,  Mr  Barsad.  Take 
time.” 

It  was  a poorer  hand  than  he  suspected.  Mr.  Barsad 
saw  losing  cards  in  it  that  Sydney  Carton  knew  nothing  of. 
Thrown  out  of  his  honourable  employment  in  England, 
through  too  much  unsuccessful  hard  swearing  there — not 
because  he  was  not  wanted  there;  our  English  reasons  for 
vaunting  our  superiority  to  secrecy  and  spies  are  of  very 
modern  date — he  knew  that  he  had  crossed  the  Channel, 
and  accepted  service  in  France : first,  as  a tempter  and  an 
eavesdropper  among  his  own  countrymen  there : gradually, 
as  a tempter  and  an  eavesdropper  among  the  natives.  He 
knew  that  under  the  overthrown  government  he  had  been  a 
spy  upon  Saint  Antoine  and  Defarge’s  wine-shop;  had  re- 
ceived from  the  watchful  police  such  heads  of  inWmation 
concerning  Doctor  Manette’s  imprisonment,  release,  and 
history,  as  should  serve  him  for  an  introduction  to  familiar 
conversation  with  the  Defarges;  and  tried  them  on  Madame 
Defarge,  and  had  broken  down  with  them  signally.  He 
always  remembered  with  fear  and  trembling,  that  that  ter- 
rible woman  had  knitted  when  he  talked  with  her,  and  had 
looked  ominously  at  him  as  her  fingers  moved.  He  had 
since  seen  her,  in  the  Section  of  Saint  Antoine,  over  and 
over  again  produce  her  knitted  registers,  and  denounce 
people  whose  lives  the  guillotine  then  surely  swallowed  up. 
He  knew,  as  every  one  employed  as  he  was  did,  that  he  was 
never  safe;  that  flight  was  impossible;  that  be  was  tied 
fast  under  the  shadow  of  the  axe;  and  that  in  spite  of  his 
utmost  tergiversation  and  treachery  in  furtherance  of  the 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


287 


reigning  terror,  a word  might  bring  it  down  upon  him. 
Once  denounced,  and  on  such  grave  grounds  as  had  iust 
now  been  suggested  to  his  mind,  he  foresaw  that  the  dread- 
lul  woman  of  whose  unrelenting  character  he  had  seen 
many  proofs,  would  produce  against  him  that  fatal  register, 
and  would  quash  his  last  chance  of  life.  Besides  that  ali 
secret  men  are  men  soon  terrified,  here  were  surely  cards 
enough  of  one  black  suit,  to  justify  the  holder  in  growing 
rather  livid  as  he  turned  them  over. 

“You  scarcely  seem  to  like  your  hand,”  said  Sydney, 
with  the  greatest  composure.  “Do  you  play?” 

I think,  sir,”  said  the  spy,  in  the  meanest  manner,  as 
he  turned  to  Mr.  Lorry,  “ I may  appeal  to  a gentleman  of 
your  years  and  benevolence,  to  put  it  to  this  other  gentle- 
man, so  much  your  junior,  whether  he  can  under  any  cir- 
cumstances  reconcile  it  to  his  station  to  play  that  Ace  of 
which  he  has  spoken.  I admit  that  i am  a spy,  and  that 
^ discreditable  station— though  it  must  be 
ij  ? somebody;  but  this  gentleman  is  no  spy,  and  why 
should  he  so  demean  himself  as  to  make  himself  one?  ” 

I play  my  Ace,  Mr.  Barsad,”  said  Carton,  taking  the 
answer  on  himself,  and  looking  at  his  watch,  “ without  any 
scruple,  in  a very  few  minutes.” 

“I  should  have  hoped,  gentlemen  both,”  said  the  spy, 
a ways  striving  to  hook  Mr.  Lorry  into  the  discussion, 
that  your  respect  for  my  sister ” 

^ not  better  testify  my  respect  for  your  sister 

Carton  relieving  her  of  her  brother,”  said  Sydney 

“ You  think  not,  sir?  ” 

I have  thoroughly  made  up  my  mind  about  it.” 
he  smooth  manner  of  the  spy,  curiously  in  dissonance 
with  his  ostentatiously  rough  dress,  and  probably  with  his 
isual  demeanour,  received  such  a check  from  the  inscruta- 
who  was  a mystery  to  wiser  and  honester 
nen  than  he,— that  it  faltered  here  and  failed  him.  While 
le  was  at  a loss.  Carton  said,  resuming  his  former  air  of 
sontemplating  cards : 

And  indeed,  now  I think  again,  I have  a strong  im- 
>ression  that  I have  another  good  card  here,  not  ye* 
numerated.  That  friend  and  fellow-Sheep,  who  spoke 
le?’™^^^^  pasturing  in  the  country  prisons;  who  was 


288 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


^LFrench.  You  don’t  know  him,”  said  the  spy,  quickly. 

^‘French,  eh?”  repeated  Carton,  musing,  and  not  ap- 
pearing to  notice  him  at  all,  though  he  echoed  his  word. 
^^Well;  he  may  be.” 

^^Is,  I assure  you,”  said  the  spy;  though  it’s  not  im- 
portant.” 

^‘Though  it’s  not  important,”  repeated  Carton,  in  the: 

same  mechanical  way — though  it’s  not  important No, 

it’s  not  important.  No.  Yet  I know  the  face.” 

think  not.  I am  sure  not.  It  can’t  be,”  said  the 

spy- 

It  can’t — be,”  muttered  Sydney  Carton,  retrospectively, 
and  filling  his  glass  (which  fortunately  was  a small  one) 
again.  Can’t  — be.  Spoke  good  French.  Yet  like  a 
foreigner,  I thought?  ” 

Provincial,”  said  the  spy. 

‘^No.  Foreign!”  cried  Carton,  striking  his  open  hand 
on  the  table,  as  a light  broke  clearly  on  his  mind.  ‘‘Cly! 
Disguised,  but  the  same  man.  We  had  that  man  before  us 
at  the  Old  Bailey.” 

^^Now,  there  you  are  hasty,  sir,”  said  Barsad,  with  a 
smile  that  gave  his  aquiline  nose  an  extra  inclination  to 
one  side;  ^Hhere  you  really  give  me  an  advantage  over  you. 
Cly  (who  I will  unreservedly  admit,  at  this  distance  of 
time,  was  a partner  of  mine)  has  been  dead  several  years.] 
I attended  him  in  his  last  illness.  He  was  buried  in  Lon- 
don, at  the  church  of  Saint  Pancras-in-the-Fields.  His  un- 
popularity with  the  blackguard  multitude  at  the  moment 
prevented  my  following  his  remains,  but  I helped  to  lay 
him  in  his  coffin.” 

Here,  Mr.  Lorry  became  aware,  from  where  he  sat,  of  a 
most  remarkable  goblin  shadow  on  the  wall.  Tracing  it  to 
its  source,  he  discovered  it  to  be  caused  by  a sudden  ex-i 
traordinary  rising  and  stiffening  of  all  the  risen  and  stiff 
hair  on  Mr.  Cruncher’s  head. 

^‘Let  us  be  reasonable,”  said  the  spy,  ‘^and  let  us  be 
fair.  To  show  you  how  mistaken  you  are,  and  what  an 
unfounded  assumption  yours  is,  I will  lay  before  you  a cer- 
tificate of  Cly’s  burial,  which  I happened  to  have  carried 
in  my  pocket-book,”  with  a hurried  hand  he  produced  and 
opened  it,  ‘‘ever  since.  There  it  is.  Oh,  look  at  it,  look 
at  it!  You  may  take  it  in  your  hand;  it’s  no  forgery.” 

Here,  Mr.  Lorry  perceived  the  reflection  on  the  wall  to 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


289 


elongate,  and  Mr.  Cruncher  rose  and  stepped  forward. 
His  hair  could  not  have  been  more  violently  on  end,  if  it 
had  been  that  moment  dressed  by  the  Cow  with  the  crum- 
pled horn  in  the  house  that  Jack  built. 

Unseen  by  the  spy,  Mr.  Cruncher  stood  at  his  side,  and 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder  like  a ghostly  bailiff. 

That  there  Roger  Cly,  master,’^  said  Mr.  Cruncher, 
with  a taciturn  and  iron-bound  visage.  So  youx)\\.t  him  in 
kis  coffin? 

^Mdid.” 

Who  took  him  out  of  it?  ’’ 

Barsad  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  stammered,  ''  What 
io  you  mean?  ” 

“I  mean,’^  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  ^‘that  he  warn’t  never  in 
t.  ISTo!  Not  he!  Til  have  my  head  took  off,  if  he  was 
iver  in  it.^’ 

I The  spy  looked  round  at  the  two  gentlemen;  they  both 
ooked  in  unspeakable  astonishment  at  Jerry. 

''I  tell  you,''  said  Jerry,  ''that  you  buried  paving-stones 
j:nd  earth  in  that  there  coffin.  Don't  go  and  tell  me  that 
'^ou  buried  Cly.  It  was  a take  in.  Me  and  two  more 
:nows  it." 

! " How  do  you  know  it?  " 

What's  that  to  you?  Ecod!"  growled  Mr.  Cruncher, 
It's  you  I have  got  a old  grudge  again,  is  it,  with  your 
hameful  impositions  upon  tradesmen!  I'd  catch  hold  of 
our  throat  and  choke  you  for  half  a guinea." 

Sydney  Carton,  who,  with  Mr.  Lorry,  had  been  lost  in 
mazement  at  this  turn  of  the  business,  here  rec^uested  Mr. 
Cruncher  to  moderate  and  explain  himself. 

''At  another  time,  sir,"  he  returned,  evasively,  "the 
resent  time  is  ill-con wenient  for  explainin'.  What  I stand 
is,  that  he  knows  well  wot  that  there  Cly  was  never  in 
hat  there  coffin.  Let  him  say  he  was,  in  so  much  as  a 
wd  of  one  syllable,  and  I'll  either  catch  hold  of  his  throat 
nd  choke  him  for  half  a guinea;  " Mr.  Cruncher  dwelt 
pon  this  as  quite  a liberal  offer;  "or  I'll  out  and  announce 
im." 

"Humph!  I see  one  thing,"  said  Carton.  "I  hold  an- 
ther card,  Mr.  Barsad.  Impossible,  here  in  raging  Paris, 
ith  Suspicion  filling  the  air,  for  you  to  outlive  denuncia- 
011,  when  you  are  in  communication  with  another  aristo- 
’atic  spy  of  the  same  antecedents  as  yourself,  who,  more 


290 


A TALE  or  TWO  CITIES. 


over,  has  the  mystery  about  him  of  having  feigned  deat^ 
and  come  to  life  again ! A plot  in  the  prisons,  of  the  for- 
eigner against  the  Republic.  A strong  card — a certain 
Guillotine  card!  Do  you  play?  ” 

“ No ! ” returned  the  spy.  “ I throw  up.  I confess  that 
we  were  so  unpopular  with  the  outrageous  mob,  that  I only 
got  away  from  England  at  the  risk  of  being  ducked  to 
death,  and  that  Cly  was  so  ferreted  up  and  down,  that  he 
never  would  have  got  away  at  all  but  for  that  sham. 
Though  how  this  man  knows  it  was  a sham,  is  a wonder  of 
wonders  to  me.” 

“ Never  you  trouble  your  head  about  this  man,”  retorted 
the  contentious  Mr.  Cruncher;  “you’ll  have  trouble  enough 
with  giving  your  attention  to  that  gentleman.  And  look 
here  I Once  more ! ” — Mr.  Cruncher  could  not  be  restrained 
from  making  rather  an  ostentatious  parade  of  his  liberality 
— “ I’d  catch  hold  of  your  throat  and  choke  yon  for  half  a 
guinea.” 

The  Sheep  of  the  prison  turned  from  him  to  Sydney  Car- 
ton, and  said,  with  more  decision,  “ It  has  come  to  a point. 
I go  on  duty  soon,  and  can’t  overstay  my  time.  You  told 
me  you  had  a proposal;  what  is  it?  Now,  it  is  of  no  use 
asking  too  much  of  me.  Ask  me  to  do  anything  in  my 
office,  putting  my  head  in  great  extra  danger,  and  I had 
better  trust  my  life  to  the  chances  of  a refusal  than  the 
chances  of  consent.  In  short,  I should  make  that  choice. 
You  talk  of  desperation.  We  are  all  desperate  here.  Re- 
member ! I may  denounce  you  if  I think  proper,  and  I can 
swear  my  way  through  stone  walls,  and  so  can  others. 
Now,  what  do  you  want  with  me?  ” 

“ Not  very  much.  You  are  a turnkey  at  the  Concier- 
gerie?  ” 

“ I tell  you  once  for  all,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  an 
escape  possible,”  said  the  spy,  firmly. 

“Why  need  you  tell  me  what  I have  not  asked?  You 
are  a turnkey  at  the  Conciergerie?  ” 

“I  am  sometimes.” 

“You  can  be  when  you  choose?  ” 

“ I can  pass  in  and  out  when  I choose.” 

Sydney  Carton  filled  another  glass  with  brandy,  poured 
it  slowly  out  upon  the  hearth,  and  watched  it  as  it  dropped 
It  being  all  spent,  he  said,  rising: 

“ So  far,  we  have  spoken  before  these  two,  because  it  wtif 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


291 


ds  well  that  the  merits  of  the  cards  should  not  rest  solely 
jetween  you  and  me.  Come  into  the  dark  room  here,  and 
I let  us  have  one  final  word  alone.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  GAME  MADE. 

While  Sydney  Carton  and  the  Sheep  of  the  prisons  were 
in  the  adjoining  dark  room,  speaking  so  low  that  not  a 
sound  was  heard,  Mr.  Lorry  looked  at  Jerry  inconsiderable 
doubt  and  mistrust.  That  honest  tradesman’s  manner  of 
receiving  the  look,  did  not  inspire  confidence;  he  changed 
the  leg  on  which  he  rested,  as  often  as  if  he  had  fifty  of 
those  limbs,  and  were  trying  them  all;  he  examined  his 
finger-nails  with  a very  questionable  closeness  of  attention; 
and  whenever  Mr.  Lorry’s  eye  caught  his,  he  was  taken 
with  that  peculiar  kind  of  short  cough  requiring  the  hollow 
of  a hand  before  it,  which  is  seldom,  if  ever,  known  to  be 
an  infirmity  attendant  on  perfect  openness  of  character. 

I “Jerry,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  “Come  here.” 

Mr.  Cruncher  came  forward  sideways,  with  one  of  his 
shoulders  in  advance  of  him. 

“ What  have  you  been,  besides  a messenger?  ” 

After  some  cogitation,  accompanied  with  an  intent  look 
it  his  patron,  Mr.  Cruncher  conceived  the  luminous  idea 
)f  replying,  “ Agricultooral  character.” 

“My  mind  misgives  me  much,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  angrily 
..haking  a forefinger  at  him,  “ that  you  have  used  the  re- 
spectable and  great  house  of  Tellson’s  as  a blind,  and  that 
/ou  have  had  an  unlawful  occupation  of  an  infamous  de- 
•cription.  If  you  have,  don’t  expect  me  to  befriend  you 
men  you  get  back  to  England.  If  you  have,  don’t  expect 
ne  to  keep  your  secret.  Tellson’s  shall  not  be  imposed 
ipon.” 

I hope,  sir,”  pleaded  the  abashed  Mr.  Cruncher,  ^^tliat 
pntleman  like  yourself  wot  I’ve  had  the  honour  of  odd 
obbing  till  I’m  grey  at  it,  would  think  twice  about  harm- 
ng  of  me,  even  if  it  wos  so — I don’t  say  it  is,  but  even  if 
t wos.  And  which  it  is  to  be  took  into  account  that  if  it 
ro8,  it  wouldn’t,  even  then,  be  all  o’  one  side.  There’d 


292 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


be  two  sides  to  it.  There  might  be  medical  doctors  at  the 
present  hour,  a picking  up  their  guineas  where  a honest 
tradesman  don’t  pick  up  his  fardens — fardens!  no,  nor  yet 
his  half  fardens — half  fardens ! no,  nor  yet  his  quarter — a 
banking  away  like  smoke  at  Tellson’s,  and  a cocking  their 
medical  eyes  at  that  tradesman  on  the  sly,  a going  in  and 
going  out  to  their  own  carriages — ah ! equally  like  smoke, 
if  not  more  so.  Well,  that  ’ud  be  imposing,  too,  on  Tell- 
son’s.  For  you  cannot  sarse  the  goose  and  not  the  gander. 
And  here’s  Mrs.  Cruncher,  or  leastways  wos  in  the  Old 
England  times,  and  would  be  to-morrow,  if  cause  given,  a 
floppin’  again  the  business  to  that  degree  as  is  ruinating 
— stark  ruinating ! Whereas  them  medical  d(Sctors’  wives 
don’t  flop — catch  ’em  at  it!  Or,  if  they  flop,  their  flop- 
pings  goes  in  favour  of  more  patients,  and  how  can  you 
rightly  have  one  without  the  t’other?  Then,  wot  with  un- 
dertakers, and  wot  with  parish  clerks,  and  wot  with  sex- 
tons, and  wot  with  private  watchmen  (all  awaricious  and 
all  in  it),  a man  wouldn’t  get  much  by  it,  even  if  it  wos  so. 
And  wot  little  a man  did  get,  would  never  prosper  with 
him,  Mr.  Lorry.  He’d  never  have  no  good  of  it;  he’d 
want  all  along  to  be  out  of  the  line,  if  he  could  see  his 
way  out,  being  once  in — even  if  it  wos  so.” 

‘^Ugh!  ” cried  Mr.  Lorry,  rather  relenting,  nevertheless. 

I am  shocked  at  the  sight  of  you.” 

^‘Now,  what  I would  humbly  offer  to  you,  sir,”  pursued 
Mr.  Cruncher,  ‘^even  if  it  wos  so,  which  I don’t  say  it 
is — — ” 

Don’t  prevaricate,”  said  Mr.  Lorry. 

‘‘No,  I will  not^  sir,”  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  as  if 
nothing  were  further  from  his  thoughts  or  practice — 
“ which  I don’t  say  it  is — wot  I would  humbly  offer  to  you, 
sir,  would  be  this.  Upon  that  there  stool,  at  that  there 
Bar,  sets  that  there  boy  of  mine,  brought  up  and  growed 
up  to  be  a man,  wot  will  errand  you,  message  you,  general- 
light-job  you,  till  your  heels  is  where  your  head  is,  if  such 
should  be  your  wishes.  If  it  wos  so,  which  I still  don’t 
say  it  is  (for  I will  not  prewaricate  to  you,  sir),  let  that 
there  boy  keep  his  father’s  place,  and  take  care  of  his 
mother;  don’t  blow  upon  that  boy’s  father — do  not  do  it, 
sir — and  let  that  father  go  into  the  line  of  the  reg’lar  dig- 
ging and  make  amends  for  what  he  would  have  un-dug — 
if  it  wos  so — by  diggin’  of  ’em  in  with  a will,  and  with 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES.  293 

conwictions  r6sp6Ctiii^  tliG  futur^  kGGpin^  of  ^6ni  sjifG. 
That,  Mr.  Lorry,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  wiping  his  forehead 
with  his  arm,  as  an  announcement  that  he  had  arrived  at 
the  peroration  of  ids  discourse,  “ is  wot  I would  respect- 
fully offer  to  you,  sir.  A man  don’t  see  all  this  hei-e  a 
goin  on  dreadful  round  him,  in  the  way  of  Subjects  with- 
out  heads,  dear  me,  plentiful  enough  fur  to  bring  the  price 
down  to  porterage  and  hardly  that,  without  havin’  his  seri- 
ous thoughts  of  things.  And  these  here  would  be  mine,  if 
It  wos  so,  entreatin’  of  you  fur  to  bear  in  mind  that  wot  I 
said  ]ust  now,  I up  and  said  in  the  good  cause  when  1 
might  have  kep’  it  back.” 

That  at  least  is  true,”  said  IVIr.  Lorry.  Say  no  more 
now.  It  may  be  that  I shall  yet  stand  your  friend,  if  you 
deserve  it,  and  repent  in  action — not  in  words.  I want  no 
more  words.” 

Mr  Cruncher  knuckled  his  forehead,  as  Sydney  Carton 
and  the ^^spy  returned  from  the  dark  room.  Adieu,  Mr. 
Barsad,”  said  the  former;  ^^our  arrangement  thus  made, 

' you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me.” 

He  sat  down  in  a chair  on  the  hearth,  over  against  Mr. 
Loiy  When  they  were  alone,  Mr.  Lorry  asked  him  what 
he  had  done? 

''Hot  much.  If  it  should  go  ill  with  the  prisoner,  I have 
ensured  access  to  him,  once.” 

Mr.  Lorry’s  countenance  fell. 

"It  is  all  I could  do,”  said  Carton.  ^^To  propose  too 
man’s  head  under  the  axe,  and, 
as  he  himself  said,  nothing  worse  could  happen  to  him  if 
he  were  denounced^  It  was  obviously  the  weakness  of  the 
position.  There  is  no  help  for  it.” 

L £ access  to  him,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  ^^if  it  should  go  ill 
before  the  Tribunal,  will  not  save  him.” 

"I  never  said  it  would.” 

Mr.  Lorry’s  eyes  gradually  sought  the  fire;  his  sym- 
iPathy  with  his  darling,  and  the  heavy  disappointment  of 
ais  second  arrest,  gradually  weakened  them;  he  was  an 
fid  man  now,  overborne  with  anxiety  of  late,  and  his  tears 

“You  are  a good  man  and  a true  friend,”  said  Carton, 
n an  altered  voice.  “Forgive  me  if  I notice  that  you  are 
itrected.  I could  not  see  my  father  weep,  and  sit  by,  care- 
ess.  And  I could  not  respect  your  sorrow  more,  if  you 


294 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


were  my  father.  You  are  free  from  that  misfortune,  how-i 
ever.” 

Though  he  said  the  last  words,  with  a slip  into  his  usual  j 
manner,  there  was  a true  feeling  and  respect  both  in  his 
tone  and  in  his  touch,  that  Mr.  Lorry,  who  had  never  seen 
the  better  side  of  him,  was  wholly  unprepared  for.  He 
gave  him  his  hand,  and  Carton  gently  pressed  it. 

^^To  return  to  poor  Darnay,”  said  Carton.  Don’t  tell. 
Her  of  this  interview,  or  this  arrangement.  It  would  notj 
enable  Her  to  go  to  see  him.  She  might  think  it  was  con- 
trived, in  case  of  the  worst,  to  convey  to  him  the  means  of 
anticipating  the  sentence.” 

Mr.  Lorry  had  not  thought  of  that,  and  he  looked  quickly 
at  Carton  to  see  if  it  were  in  his  mind.  It  seemed  to  be; 
he  returned  the  look,  and  evidently  understood  it. 

^^She  might  think  a thousand  things,”  Carton  said,  “andi 
any  of  them  would  only  add  to  her  trouble.  Don’t  speak! 
of  me  to  her.  As  I said  to  you  when  I first  came,  I had  i 
better  not  see  her.  I can  put  my  hand  out,  to  do  any  little 
helpful  work  for  her  that  niy  hand  can  find  to  do,  without 
that.  You  are  going  to  her,  I hope?  She  must  be  very : 
desolate  to-night.”  * 

^^I  am  going  now,  directly.” 

I am  glad  of  that.  She  has  such  a strong  attachment ; 
to  you  and  reliance  on  you.  How  does  she  look?”  ^ 

^‘Anxious  and  unhappy,  but  very  beautiful.” 

'^Ah!” 

It  was  a long,  grieving  sound,  like  a sigh — almost  like  a 
sob.  It  attracted  Mr.  Lorry’s  eyes  to  Carton’s  face,  which 
was  turned  to  the  fire.  A light,  or  ^shade  (the  old  gen-  ^ 
tleman  could  not  have  said  which),  passed  from  it  as 
swiftly  as  a change  will  sweep  over  a hill-side  on  a wild  | 
bright  day,  and  he  lifted  his  foot  to  put  back  one  of  the 
little  flaming  logs,  which  was  tumbling  forward.  He  wore  ; 
the  white  riding-coat  and  top-boots,  then  in  vogue,  and  the  ! 
light  of  the  fire  touching  their  light  surfaces  made  him  | 
look  very  pale,  with  his  long  brown  hair,  all  untrimmed,  | 
hanging  loose  about  him.  His  indifference  to  fire  wa;s  suf-  I 
ficiently  remarkable  to  elicit  a word  of  remonstrance  from  j 
Mr.  Lorry;  his  boot  was  still  upon  the  hot  embers  of  the  !| 
flaming  log,  when  it  had  broken  under  the  weight  of  his  foot. 

I forgot  it,”  he  said. 

Mr.  Lorry’s  eyes  were  again  attracted  to  his  face.  Tak-  i 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


295 


ing  note  of  the  wasted  air  which  clouded  the  naturally 
handsome  features,  and  having  the  expression  of  prisoners’ 
.faces  fresh  in  his  mind,  he  was  strongly  reminded  of  that 
Expression. 

^‘And  your  duties  here  have  drawn  to  an  end,  sir?” 
said  Carton,  turning  to  him. 

Yes.  As  I was  telling  you  last  night  when  Lucie  came 
„in  so  unexpectedly,  I have  at  length  done  all  that  I can  do 
mere.  I hoped  to  have  left  them  in  perfect  safety,  and 
then  to  have  quitted  Paris.  I have  my  Leave  to  Pass.  I 
.was  ready  to  go.” 

’ They  were  both  silent. 

“ Yours  is  a long  life  to  look  back  upon,  sir?  ” said  Car- 
ton, wistfully. 

“ I am  in  my  seventy-eighth  year.” 

‘‘You  have  been  useful  all  your  life;  steadily  and  con- 
stantly occupied;  trusted,  respected,  and  looked  up  to?” 
i “I  have  been  a man  of  business,  ever  since  I have  been 
‘I  man.  Indeed,  I may  say  that  I was  a man  of  business 
ivhen  a boy.” 

^ “ See  what  a place  you  fill  at  seventy-eight.  How  many 
i3eople  will  miss  you  when  you  leave  it  empty ! ” 

“A  solitary  old  bachelor,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry,  shaking 
lis  head.  “There  is  nobody  to  weep  for  me. 

' “ How  can  you  say  that?  Wouldn’t  She  weep  for  you? 
Wouldn’t  her  child?  ” 

“Yes,  yes,  thank  God.  I didn’t  quite  mean  what  I 
aid.” 

“ It  is  a thing  to  thank  God  for;  is  it  not?  ” 

“Surely,  surely.” 

“ If  you  could  say,  with  truth,  to  your  own  solitary  heart, 

' o-night,  ‘ I have  secured  to  myself  the  love  and  attachment, 
he  gratitude  or  respect,  of  no  human  creature;  I have  won 
I lyself  a tender  place  in  no  regard;  I have  done  nothing  good 
r serviceable  to  be  remembered  by ! ’ your  seventy -eight 
ears  would  be  seventy-eight  heavy  curses:  would  they 
ot?  ” ^ J 

“You  say  truly,  Mr.  Carton;  I think  they  would  be.” 

Sydney  turned  his  eyes  again  upon  the  fire,  and,  after  a 
lence  of  a few  moments,  said : 

“ I should  like  to  ask  you : — Does  your  childhood  seem 
ir  off?  Do  the  days  when  you  sat  at  your  mother’s  knee, 
3em  days  of  very  long  ago?  ” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


29(i 

Responding  to  his  softened  manner,  Mr.  Lorry  answered : 
“Twenty  years  back,  yes;  at  this  time  of  my  life,  no. 
For,  as  I draw  closer  and  closer  to  the  end,  I travel  in  the 
circle,  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  beginning.  It  seems  to  be 
one  of  the  kind  smoothings  and  preparings  of  the  way. 
My  heart  is  touched  now,  by  many  remembrances  that  had 
long  fallen  asleep,  of  my  pretty  young  mother  (and  I so 
old!),  and  by  many  associations  of  the  days  when  what  we 
call  the  World  was  not  so  real  with  me,  and  my  faults  were 
not  confirmed  in  me.” 

“I  understand  the  feeling!”  exclaimed  Carton,  with  a 
bright  flush.  “ And  you  are  the  better  for  it?  ” 

“ I hope  so.” 

Carton  terminated  the  conversation  here,  by  rising  to 
help  him  on  with  his  outer  coat;  “but  you,”  said  Mr. 
Lorry,  reverting  to  the  theme,  “you  are  young.” 

“ Yes,”  said  Carton.  “ I am  not  old,  but  my  young  way 
was  never  the  way  to  age.  Enough  of  me.” 

“And  of  me,  I am  sure,”  said  Mr.  Lorry.  Are  you  go- 
ing out?  ” 

“ITl  walk  with  you  to  her  gate.  You  know  my  vaga- 
bond and  restless  habits.  If  I should  prowl  about  the 
streets  a long  time,  don’t  be  uneasy;  I shall  reappear  in 
the  morning.  You  go  to  the  Court  to-morrow?  ” 

“Yes,  unhappily.” 

“ I shall  be  there,  but  only  as  one  of  the  crowd.  My 
Spy  will  find  a place  for  me.  Take  my  arm,  sir.”' 

Mr.  Lorry  did  so,  and  they  went  down-stairs  and  out  in 
the  streets.  A few  minutes  brought  them  to  Mr.  Lorry’s 
destination.  Carton  left  him  there;  but  lingered  at  a little 
distance,  and  turned  back  to  the  gate  again  when  it  was 
shut,  and  touched  it.  He  had  heard  of  her  going  to  the 
prison  every  day.  “ She  came  out  here,  he  said,  looking 
about  him,  “turned  this  way,  must  have  trod  on  these 
stones  often.  Let  me  follow  in  her  steps.” 

It  was  ten  o’clock  at  night  when  he  stood  before  the 
prison  of  La  Force,  where  she  had  stood  hundreds  of  times. 
A little  wood-sawyer,  having  closed  his  shop,  was  smoking 
his  pipe  at  his  shop-door. 

“Good  night,  citizen,”  said  Sydney  Carton,  pausing  in 
going  by;  for,  the  man  eyed  him  inquisitively. 

“Good  night,  citizen.” 

“ How  goes  the  Republic?  ” 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


297 


i 1 


w ^^You  mean  the  Guillotine.  Not  ill.  Sixty-three  to- 
ll day.  We  shall  mount  to  a hundred  soon.  Samson  and  his 
I men  complain  sometimes,  of  being  exhausted.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
^ He  is  so  droll,  that  Samson.  Such  a Barber ! ” 

li  Do  you  often  go  to  see  him 

'‘Shave?  Always.  Everyday.  What  a barber!  You 
have  seen  him  at  work? 

I " Never. 

I . " Go  and  see  him  when  he  has  a good  batch.  Figure 
I this  to  yourself,  citizen;  he  shaved  the  sixty-three  to-day, 
••in  less  than  two  pipes!  Less  than  two  pipes.  Word  of 
honour ! 

’ As  the  grinning  little  man  held  out  the  pipe  he  was 
smoking,  to  explain  how  he  timed  the  executioner.  Carton 
was  so  sensible  of  a rising  desire  to  strike  the  life  out  of 
him,  that  he  turned  away. 

j "But  you  are  not  English,’^  said  the  wood-sawyer, 
^•'though  you  wear  English  dress? 

hYes,^’  said  Carton,  pausing  again,  and  answering  over 
shoulder. 

' You  speak  like  a Frenchman.’’ 

’ "I  am  an  old  student  here.” 

® Aha,  a perfect  Frenchman!  Goodnight,  Englishman.” 
"Good  night,  citizen.” 

"But  go  and  see  that  droll  dog,”  the  little  man  per- 
Sjisted,  calling  after  him.  "And  take  a pipe  with  you!  ” 
Sydney  had  not  gone  far  out  of  sight,  when  he  stopped 
n the  middle  of  the  street  under  a glimmering  lamp,  and 
wrote  with  his  pencil  on  a scrap  of  paper.  Then,  travers- 
I ng  with  the  decided  step  of  one  who  remembered  the  way 
well,  several  dark  and  dirty  streets — much  dirtier  than 
i Lsual,  for  the  best  public  thoroughfares  remained  un- 
I leansed  in  those  times  of  terror — he  stopped  at  a chemist’s 
[ hop,  which  the  owner  was  closing  with  his  own  hands.  A 
I mall,  dim,  crooked  shop,  kept  in  a tortuous,  up-hill  thor- 
! ughfare,  by  a small,  dim,  crooked  man. 

I Griying  this  citizen,  too,  good  night,  as  he  confronted  him 
counter,  he  laid  the  scrap  of  paper  before  him. 

, Whew!”  the  chemist  whistled  softly,  as  he  read  it. 

' Hi ! hi ! hi ! ” 

’j  Sydney  Carton  took  no  heed,  and  the  chemist  said: 

"For  you,  citizen?” 

"Forme.” 


298 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


You  will  be  careful  to  kee[)  them  separate,  citizei* 
You  know  the  couseoueuces  of  mixing  theni^  ” 
“Perfectly.” 

Certain  small  packets  were  made  and  given  to  him. 
put  them,  one  by  one,  in  the  breast  of  his  inner  coat 
counted  out  the  money  for  them,  and  deliberately  left  thi 
shop.  “There  is  nothing  more  to  do,”  said  he,  glancinj 
upward  at  the  moon,  “until  to-morrow.  I can’t  sleep.” 

It  was  not  a reckless  manner,  the  manner  in  which  ht 
said  these  words  aloud  under  the  fast-sailing  clouds,  no 
was  it  more  expressive  of  negligence  than  defiance.  It  waf 
the  settled  manner  of  a tired  man,  who  had  wandered  anc 
struggled  and  got  lost,  but  who  at  length  struck  into  hi; 
road  and  saw  its  end. 

Long  ago,  when  he  had  been  famous  among  his  earlies 
competitors  as  a youth  of  great  promise,  he  had  followec 
his  father  to  the  grave.  His  mother  had  died,  years  be- 
fore. These  solemn  words,  which  had  been  read  at  his  fa- 
ther’s grave,  arose  in  his  mind  as  he  went  down  the  darl 
streets,  among  the  heavy  shadows,  with  the  moon  and  thf 
j/  clouds  sailing  on  high  above  him.  “J.  am  the  resurrection 
and  the  life,  saith  the  Lord : he  that  believeth  in  me^ 
though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live:  and  whosoevei 
liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall  never  die.” 

In  a city  dominated  by  the  axe,  alone  at  night,  with  nat- 
ural sorrow  rising  in  him  for  the  sixty-three  who  had  beeri 
that  day  put  to  death,  and  for  to-morrow’s  victims  then! 
awaiting  their  doom  in  the  prisons,  and  still  of  to-morrow’s 
and  to-morrow’s,  the  chain  of  association  that  brought  the! 
words  home,  like  a rusty  old  ship’s  anchor  from  the  deep, 
might  have  been  easily  found.  He  did  not  seek  it,  but: 
repeated  them  and  went  on.  ; 

With  a solemn  interest  in  the  lighted  windows  where  thej 
people  were  going  to  rest,  forgetful  through  a few  calm 
hours  of  the  horrors  surrounding  them;  in  the  towers  of 
the  churches,  where  no  prayers  were  said,  for  the  popular 
revulsion  had  even  travelled  that  length  of  self-destruction 
from  years  of  priestly  impostors,  plunderers,  and  profligates; 
in  the  distant  burial-places,  reserved,  as  they  wrote  upon 
the  gates,  for  Eternal  Sleep;  in  the  abounding  gaols;  and 
in  the  streets  along  which  the  sixties  rolled  to  a death 
which  had  become  so  common  and  material,  that  no  soi- 
rowful  story  of  a haunting  Spirit  ever  arose  among  the  peo- 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


299 


:)le  out  of  all  the  working  of  the  Guillotine;  with  a solemn 
nterest  in  the  whole  life  and  death  of  the  city  settling 
down  to  its  short  nightly  pause  in  fury;  Sydney  Carton 
crossed  the  Seine  again  for  the  lighter  streets. 

Few  coaches  were  abroad,  for  riders  in  coaches  were 
liable  to  be  suspected,  and  gentility  hid  its  head  in  red 
nightcaps,  and  put  on  heavy  shoes,  and  trudged.  But,  the 
theatres  were  all  well  filled,  and  the  people  poured  cheer- 
fully out  as  he  passed,  and  went  chatting  home.  At  one 
of  the  theatre  doors,  there  was  a little  girl  with  a mother, 
looking  for  a way  across  the  street  through  the  mud.  He 
carried  the  child  over,  and  before  the  timid  arm  was  loosed 
from  his  neck  asked  her  for  a kiss. 

I am  the  resurrection  and  the  life,  saith  the  Lord : he 
that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he 
live : and  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me,  shall  never 
die.” 

Now,  that  the  streets  were  quiet,  and  the  night  wore  on, 
the  words  were  in  the  echoes  of  his  feet,  and  were  in  the 
air.  Perfectly  calm  and  steady,  he  sometimes  repeated 
them  to  himself  as  he  walked;  but,  he  heard  thena  always. 

The  night  wore  out,  and,  as  he  stood  upon  the  bridge 
listening  to  the  water  as  it  splashed  the  river- walls  of  the 
Island  of  Paris,  where  the  picturesque  confusion  of  houses 
and  cathedral  shone  bright  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  the 
day  came  coldly,  looking  like  a dead  face  out  of  the  sky. 
Then,  the  night,  with  the  moon  and  the  stars,  turned  pale 
and  died,  and  for  a little  while  it  seemed  as  if  Creation 
were  delivered  over  to  Death’s  dominion. 

But,  the  glorious  sun,  rising,  seemed  to  strike  those 
words,  that  burden  of  the  night,  straight  and  warm  to  his 
heart  in  its  long  bright  rays.  And  looking  along  them, 
with  reverently  shaded  eyes,  a bridge  of  light  appeared  to 
span  the  air  between  him  and  the  sun,  while  the  river 
sparkled  under  it. 

The  strong  tide,  so  swift,  so  deep,  and  certain,  was  like 
i congenial  friend,  in  the  morning  stillness.  He  walked 
^ jy  the  stream,  far  from  the  houses,  and  in  the  light  and 
i warmth  of  the  sun  fell  asleep  on  the  bank.  When  he  awoke 
i ind  was  afoot  again,  he  lingered  there  yet  a little  longer, 
watching  an  eddy  that  turned  and  turned  purposeless,  until 
:he  stream  absorbed  it,  and  carried  it  on  to  the  sea.- — ^‘Like 
ne ! ” 


300 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


A trading-boat,  with  a sail  of  the  softened  colour  of  a 
dead  leaf,  then  glided  into  his  view,  floated  by  him,  and 
died  away.  As  its  silent  track  in  the  water  disappeared, 
the  prayer  that  had  broken  up  out  of  his  heart  for  a merci- 
ful consideration  of  all  his  poor  blindnesses  and  errors, 
ended  in  the  words,  ^‘1  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life.” 

Mr.  Lorry  was  already  out  when  he  got  back,  and  it  was 
easy  to  surmise  where  the  good  old  man  was  gone.  Sydney 
Carton  drank  nothing  but  a little  coffee,  ate  some  bread, 
and,  having  washed  and  changed  to  refresh  himself,  went 
out  to  the  place  of  trial. 

The  court  was  all  astir  and  a-buzz,  when  the  black  sheep 
— whom  many  fell  away  from  in  dread — pressed  him  into 
an  obscure  corner  among  the  crowd.  Mr.  Lorry  was  there, 
and  Doctor  Manette  was  there.  She  was  there,  sitting 
beside  her  father. 

When  her  husband  was  brought  in,  she  turned  a look 
upon  him,  so  sustaining,  so  encouraging,  so  full  of  admir- 
ing love  and  pitying  tenderness,  yet  so  courageous  for  his 
sake,  that  it  called  the  healthy  blood  into  his  face,  bright- 
ened his  glance,  and  animated  his  heart.  If  there  had  been 
any  eyes  to  notice  the  influence  of  her  look,  on  Sydney 
Carton,  it  would  have  been  seen  to  be  the  same  influence 
exactly. 

Before  that  unjust  Tribunal,  there  was  little  or  no  order 
of  procedure,  ensuring  to  any  accused  person  any  reasonable 
hearing.  There  could  have  been  no  such  Eevolution,  if  all 
laws,  forms,  and  ceremonies,  had  not  first  been  so  mons- 
trously abused,  that  the  suicidal  vengeance  of  the  Revolu- 
tion was  to  scatter  them  all  to  the  winds. 

Every  eye  was  turned  to  the  jury.  The  same  deter- 
mined patriots  and  good  republicans  as  yesterday  and  the 
day  before,  and  to-morrow  and  the  day  after.  Eager  and 
prominent  among  them,  one  man  with  a craving  face,  and 
his  fingers  perpetually  hovering  about  his  lips,  whose  ap- 
pearance gave  great  satisfaction  to  the  spectators.  A life- 
thirsting,  cannibal-looking,  bloody-minded  juryman,  the 
Jacques  Three  of  St.  Antoine.  The  whole  jury,  as  a jury 
of  dogs  empannelled  to  try  the  deer. 

Every  eye  then  turned  to  the  five  judges  and  the  public 
prosecutor.  No  favourable  leaning  in  that  quarter  to-day. 
A fell,  uncompromising,  murderous  business-meaning  there. 
Every  eye  then  sought  some  other’  eye  in  the  crowd,  and 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


301 


gleamed  at  it  approvingly;  and  heads  nodded  at  one  an- 
other, before  bending  forward  with  a strained  attention. 

Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay.  Released  yester- 
day. Reaccused  and  retaken  yesterday.  Indictment  de- 
livered to  him  last  night.  Suspected  and  Denounced 
enemy  of  the  Republic,  Aristocrat,  one  of  a family  of 
tyrants,  one  of  a race  proscribed,  for  that  they  had  used 
If  their  abolished  privileges  to  the  infamous  oppression  of  the 
; people.  Charles  Evremonde,  called  Darnay,  in  right  of 
! such  proscription,  absolutely  Dead  in  Law. 

To  this  effect,  in  as  few  or  fewer  words,  the  Public 
Prosecutor. 

The  President  asked,  was  the  Accused  openly  denounced 
or  secretly? 

Openly,  President. 

I ‘‘By  whom?’’ 

’ “ Three  voices.  Ernest  Defarge,  wine- vender  of  St.  An- 

toine.” 

I “Good.” 

* “Therese  Defarge,  his  wife.” 

“Good.” 

“Alexandre  Manette,  physician.” 

A great  uproar  took  place  in  the  court,  and  in  the  midst 
of  it.  Doctor  Manette  was  seen,  pale  and  trembling,  stand- 
ing where  he  had  been  seated. 

“ President,  I indignantly  protest  to  you  that  this  is  a 
forgery  and  a fraud.  You  know  the  accused  to  be  the  hus- 
band of  my  daughter.  My  daughter,  and  those  dear  to 
her,  are  far  dearer  to  me  than  my  life.  Who  and  where  is 
the  false  conspirator  who  says  that  I denounce  the  husband 
of  my  child ! ” 

“ Citizen  Manette,  be  tranquil.  To  fail  in  submission  to 
the  authority  of  the  Tribunal  would  be  to  put  yourself  out 
of  Law.  As  to  what  is  dearer  to  you  than  life,  nothing 
can  be  so  dear  to  a good  citizen  as  the  Republic.” 

• Loud  acclamations  hailed  this  rebuke.  The  President 
' rang  his  bell,  and  with  warmth  resumed. 

“ If  the  Republic  should  demand  of  you  the  sacrifice  of 
^our  child  herself,  you  would  have  no  duty  but  to  sacrifice 
tier.  Listen  to  what  is  to  follow.  In  the  meanwhile,  be 
nlent ! ” 

Frantic  acclamations  were  again  raised.  Doctor  Manette 
5at  down,  with  his  eyes  looking  around,  and  his  lips  trem- 


802  A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

bliiig;  his  daughter  drew  closer  to  him.  The  craving  man 
on  the  jury  rubbed  his  hands  together,  and  restored  the 
usual  hand  to  his  mouth. 

Defarge  was  produced,  when  the  court  was  quiet  enough 
to  admit  of  his  being  heard,  and  rapidly  expounded  the 
story  of  the  imprisonment,  and  of  his  having  been  a mere 
boy  in  the  Doctor’s  service,  and  of  the  relea.se,  and  of  the 
state  of  the  prisoner  when  released  and  delivered  to  him. 
This  short  examination  followed,  for  the  court  was  quick 
with  its  work.  ... 

“ You  did  good  service  at  the  taking  of  the  Bastille,  citi- 
zen? ” 

“ I believe  so.” 

Here,  an  excited  woman  screeched  from  the  crowd: 
“ You  were'  one  of  the  best  patriots  there.  'Why  not  say  so? 
You  were  a cannonier  that  day  there,  and  you_  were  among 
the  first  to  enter  the  accursed  fortress  when  it  fell.  Pa- 
triots, I speak  the  truth ! ” 

It  was  The  Vengeance  who,  amidst  the  warm  commenda- 
tions of  the  audience,  thus  assisted  the  proceedings.  The 
President  rang  his  bell;  but.  The  Vengeance,  warming 
with  encouragement,  shrieked,  “ I defy  that  bell ! ” wherein 
she  was  likewise  much  commended. 

“ Inform  the  Tribunal  of  what  you  did  that  day  within 
the  Bastille,  citizen.” 

“I  knew,”  said  Defarge,  looking  down  at  his  wife,  who 
stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps  on  which  he  was  raised, 
looking  steadily  up  at  him;  “I  knew  that  this  prisoner,  of 
whom  I speak,  had  been  confined  in  a cell  known  as  One 
Hundred  and  Five,  North  Tower.  I knew  it  from  himself. 
He  knew  himself  by  no  other  name  than  One  Hundred  and 
Five,  North  Tower,  when  he  made  shoes  under  my  care. 
As  I serve  my  gun  that  day,  I resolve,  when  the  place 
shall  fall,  to  examine  that  cell.  It  falls.  I mount  to  the 
cell,  with  a fellow-citizen  who  is  one  of  the  Jury,  directed 
by  a gaoler.  I examine  it,  very  closely.  In  a hole  in  the 
chimney,  where  a stone  has  been  worked  out  and  replaced, 
I find  a written  paper.  This  is  that  written  paper.  I have 
made  it  my  business  to  examine  some  specimens  of  the 
writing  of  Doctor  Manette.  This  is  the  writing  of  Doctor 
Manette.  I confide  this  paper,  in  the  writing  of  Doctor 
Manette,  to  the  hands  of  the  President.” 

“ Let  it  be  read.” 


it  F“. 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


303 


In  a dead  silence  and  stillness — the  prisoner  under  trial 
looking  lovingly  at  his  wife,  his  wife  only  looking  from 
him  to  look  with  solicitude  at  her  father,  Doctor  Manette 
keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  reader,  Madame  Defarge 
never  taking  hers  from  the  prisoner,  Defarge  never  taking 
his  from  his  feasting  wife,  and  all  the  other  eyes  there  in- 
tent upon  the  Doctor,  who  saw  none  of  them — the  paper 
was  read,  as  follows. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  SUBSTANCE  OF  THE  SHADOW. 

“ I,  Alexandke  Manette,  unfortunate  physician,  native 
of  Beauvais,  and  afterwards  resident  in  Paris,  write  this 
melancholy  paper  in  my  doleful  cell  in  the  Bastille,  during 
the  last  month  of  the  year,  1767.  I write  it  at  stolen  in- 
tervals, under  every  difficulty.  I design  to  secrete  it  in  the 
wall  of  the  chimney,  where  I have  slowly  and  laboriously 
made  a place  of  concealment  for  it.  Some  pitying  hand 
may  find  it  there,  when  I and  my  sorrows  are  dust. 

“ These  words  are  formed  by  the  rusty  iron  point  with 
which  I write  with  difficulty  in  scrapings  of  soot  and  char- 
coal from  the  chimney,  mixed  with  blood,  in  the  last 
month  of  the  tenth  year  of  my  captivity.  Hope  has  quite 
leparted  from  my  breast.  I know  from  terrible  warnings 
1 have  noted  in  myself  that  my  reason  will  not  long  remain 
unimpaired,  but  I solemnly  declare  that  I am  at  this  time 
n the  possession  of  my  right  mind— that  my  memory  is 
exact  and  circumstantial— and  that  I write  the  truth  as  I 
ihall  answer  for  these  my  last  recorded  words,  whether 
>hey  be  ever  read  by  men  or  not,  at  the  Eternal  Judgment- 
5eat. 

One  cloudy  moonlight  night,  in  the  third  week  of  De- 
cember (I  think  the  twenty-second  of  the  month)  in  the 
^ walking  on  a retired  part  of  the  quay  by 
he  Seme  for  the  refreshment  of  the  frosty  air,  at  an  hour’s 
listance  from  my  place  of  residence  in  the  Street  of  the 
5chool  of  Medicine,  when  a carriage  came  along  behind 
. ne,  driven  very  fast.  As  I stood  aside  to  let  that  carriage 


^^04  A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

pass,  apprehensive  that  it  might  otherwise  run  me  down,  a 
head  was  put  out  at  the  window,  and  a voice  called  to  the 
driver  to  stop. 

“ The  carriage  stopped  as  soon  as  the  driver  could  rein 
in  his  horses,  and  the  same  voice  called  to  me  by  my  name. 
I answered.  The  carriage  was  then  so  far  in  advance  of 
me  that  two  gentlemen  had  time  to  open  the  door  and 
alight  before  I came  up  with  it.  I observed  that  they  were 
both  wrapped  in  cloaks,  and  appeared  to  conceal  them- 
selves. As  they  stood  side  by  side  near  the  carriage  door, 
I also  observed  that  they  both  looked  of  about  my  own  age, 
or  rather  younger,  and  that  they  were  greatly  alike,  in  stat- 
ure, manner,  voice,  and  (as  far  as  I could  see)  face  too. 

‘ You  are  Doctor  Manette?  ^ said  one. 

^ I am.’ 

^ Doctor  Manette,  formerly  of  Beauvais,’  said  the  other; 
the  young  physician,  originally  an  expert  surgeon,  who 
within  the  last  year  or  two  has  made  a rising  reputation  in 
Paris?  ’ 

‘ Gentlemen,’  I returned,  ^ I am  that  Doctor  Manette  of 
whom  you  speak  so  graciously.  ’ 

‘ We  have  been  to  your  residence,’  said  the  first,  ^ and 
not  being  so  fortunate  as  to  find  you  there,  and  being  in- 
formed that  you  were  probably  walking  in  this  direction, 
we  followed,  in  the  hope  of  overtaking  you.  Will  you 
please  to  enter  the  carriage?  ’ 

“The  manner  of  both  was  imperious,  and  they  both 
moved,  as  these  words  were  spoken,  so  as  to  place  me  be- 
tween themselves  and  the  carriage  door.  They  were  armed. 
I was  not. 

“ ‘ Gentlemen,’  said  I,  ^ pardon  me;  but  I usually  inquire 
who  does  me  the  honour  to  seek  my  assistance,  and  what 
is  the  nature  of  the  case  to  which  I am  summoned.’ 

“ The  reply  to  this  was  made  by  him  who  had  spoken 
second.  ^ Doctor,  your  clients  are  people  of  condition.  As 
to  the  nature  of  the  case,  our  confidence  in  your  skill  as- 
sures us  that  you  will  ascertain  it  for  yourself  better  than 
we  can  describe  it.  Enough.  Will  you  please  to  enter  the 
carriage?  ’ 

“ I could  do  nothing  but  comply,  and  I entered  it  in  si- 
lence. They  both  entered  after  me — the  last  springing  in, 
after  putting  up  the  steps.  The  carriage  turned  about,  and 
drove  on  at  its  former  speed. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


305 


repeat  this  conversation  exactly  as  it  occurred.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  it  is,  word  for  word,  the  same.  I de- 
scribe everything  exactly  as  it  took  place,  constraining  my 
mind  not  to  wander  from  the  task.  Where  I make  the 
broken  marks  that  follow  here,  I leave  off  for  the  time,  and 
\ put  my  paper  in  its  hiding-place.  ^ ^ ^ ^ 

^‘The  carriage  left  the  streets  behind,  passed  the  North 
Barrier,  and  emerged  upon  the  country  road.  At  two- 
thirds  of  a league  from  the  Barrier— I did  not  estimate  the 

distance  at  that  time,  but  afterwards  when  I traversed  it 

it  struck  out  of  the  main  avenue,  and  presently  stopped  at 

■ a solitary  house.  We  all  three  alighted,  and  walked,  by 
a damp  soft  footpath  in  a garden  where  a neglected  foun- 
tain had  overflowed,  to  the  door  of  the  house.  It  was  not 
opened  immediately,  in  answer  to  the  ringing  of  the  bell, 
and  one  of  my  two  conductors  struck  the  man  who  opened 

i it,  with  his  heavy  riding  glove,  across  the  face. 

There  was  nothing  in  this  action  to  attract  my  particu- 
lar attention,  for  I had  seen  common  people  struck  more 
i commonly  than  dogs.  But,  the  other  of  the  two,  being 
angry  likewise,  struck  the  man  in  like  manner  with  his 
arm;  the  look  and  bearing  of  the  brothers  were  then  so  ex- 

■ actly  alike,  that  I then  first  perceived  them  to  be  twin 
brothers. 

^^From  the  time  of  our  alighting  at  the  outer  gate  (which 
we  found  locked,  and  which  one  of  the  brothers  had  opened 
to  admit  us,  and  had  relocked),  I had  heard  cries  proceed- 
ing from  an  upper  chamber.  I was  conducted  to  this 
chamber  straight,  the  cries  growing  louder  as  we  ascended 
the  stairs,  and  I found  a patient  in  a high  fever  of  the 
brain,  lying  on  a bed. 

The  patient  was  a woman  of  great  beauty,  and  young; 
assuredly  not  much  past  twenty.  Her  hair  was  torn  and 
lagged,  and  her  arms  were  bound  to  her  sides  with  sashes 
and  handkerchiefs.  I noticed  that  these  bonds  were  all 
portions  of  a gentleman's  dress.  On  one  of  them,  which 
was  a fringed  scarf  for  a dress  of  ceremony,  I saw  the 
armorial  bearings  of  a Noble,  and  the  letter  E. 

‘‘I  saw  this,  within  the  first  minute  of  my  contemplation 
of  the  patient;  for,  in  her  restless  strivings  she  had  turned 
over  on  her  face  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  had  drawn  the  end 
of  the  scarf  ^ into  her  mouth,  and  was  in  danger  of  suffoca- 
tion. My  first  act  was  to  put  out  my  hand  to  relieve  her 


306 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


breathing;  and  in  moving  the  scarf  aside,  the  embroidery 
in  the  corner  caught  my  sight. 

I turned  her  gently  over,  placed  my  hands  upon  her 
breast  to  calm  her  and  keep  her  down,  and  looked  into  her 
face.  Her  eyes  were  dilated  and  wild,  and  she  constantly 
uttered  piercing  shrieks,  and  repeated  the  words,  ‘ My  hus- 
band, my  father,  and  my  brother ! ’ and  then  counted  up  to 
twelve,  and  said,  ‘ Hush ! ’ For  an  instant,  and  no  more, 
she  would  pause  to  listen,  and  then  the  piercing  shrieks 
would  begin  again,  and  she  would  repeat  the  cry  ‘ My  hus- 
band, my  father,  and  my  brother!  ’ and  would  count  up  to 
twelve,  and  say,  ‘ Hush ! ’ There  was  no  variation  in  the 
order,  or  the  manner.  There  was  no  cessation,  but  the 
regular  moment^ s pause,  in  the  utterance  of  these  sounds. 

‘ How  long,’  I asked,  ‘ has  this  lasted?  ’ 

To  distinguish  the  brothers,  I will  call  them  the  elder 
and  the  younger;  by  the  elder,  I mean  him  who  exercised 
the  most  authority.  It  was  the  elder  who  replied,  ‘ Since 
about  this  hour  last  night.  ’ 

^ She  has  a husband,  a father,  and  a brother?  ’ 

^ A brother.  ’ 

“ ^ I do  not  address  her  brother?  ’ 

^^He  answered  with  great  contempt,  ‘No.’ 

“ ‘ She  has  some  recent  association  with  the  number 
twelve?  ’ 

“The  younger  brother  impatiently  rejoined,  ‘ With  twelve 
o’clock?  ’ 

“ ‘ See,  gentlemen,’  said  I,  still  keeping  my  hands  upon 
her  breast,  ‘how  useless  I am,  as  you  have  brought  me  1 If 
I had  known  what  I was  coming  to  see,  I could  have  come 
provided.  As  it  is,  time  must  be  lost.  There  are  no  medi- 
cines to  be  obtained  in  this  lonely  place.’ 

“The  elder  brother  looked  to  the  younger,  who  said 
haughtily,  ‘ There  is  a case  of  medicines  here;  ’ and  brought 
it  from  a closet,  and  put  it  on  the  table.  * * * 

“ I opened  some  of  the  bottles,  smelt  them,  and  put  the 
stoppers  to  my  lips.  If  I had  wanted  to  use  anything  save 
narcotic  medicines  that  were  poisons  in  themselves,  I would 
not  have  administered  any  of  those. 

“ ‘ Do  you  doubt  them?  ’ asked  the  younger  brother. 

“ ‘ You  see,  monsieur,  I am  going  to  use  them,’  I replied, 
and  said  no  more. 

“I  made  the  patient  swallow,  with  great  difficulty,  and 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


307 


after  many  efforts,  the  dose  that  I desired  to  give.  As  I 
intended  to  repeat  it  after  a while,  and  as  it  was  necessary 
to  watch  its  influence,  I then  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the 
bed.  There  was  a timid  and  suppressed  woman  in  attend- 
ance (wife  of  the  man  down-stairs),  who  had  retreated  into 
a corner.  The  house  was  damp  and  decayed,  indifferently 
furnished — evidently,  recently  occupied  and  temporarily 
I used.  Some  thick  old  hangings  had  been  nailed  up  before 
the  windows,  to  deaden  the  sound  of  the  shrieks.  They 
continued  to  be  uttered  in  their  regular  succession,  with  the 
cry,  ‘ My  husband,  my  father,  and  my  brother ! ’ the  count- 
ing up  to  twelve,  and  ‘ Hush ! ’ The  frenzy  was  so  violent, 

I that  I had  not  unfastened  the  bandages  restraining  the 
arms;  but  I had  looked  to  them,  to  see  that  they  were  not 
painful.  The  only  spark  of  encouragement  in  the  case, 
j was,  that  my  hand  upon  the  sufferer’s  breast  had  this  much 
soothing  influence,  that  for  minutes  at  a time  it  tranquil- 
lised  the  figure.  It  had  no  effect  upon  the  cries;  no  pen- 
dulum could  be  more  regular. 

‘‘For  the  reason  that  my  hand  had  this  effect  (I  assume), 
I had  sat  by  the  side  of  the  bed  for  half  an  hour,  with  the 
two  brothers  looking  on,  before  the  elder  said : 

“ ‘ There  is  another  patient.’ 

“I  was  startled,  and  asked,  ‘ Is  it  a pressing  case?  ’ 

“ ‘ You  had  better  see,’  he  carelessly  answered;  and  took 
up  a light.  * * * * 

“The  other  patient  lay  in  a back  room  across  a second 
staircase,  which  was  a species  of  loft  over  a stable.  There 
was  a low  plastered  ceiling  to  a part  of  it;  the  rest  was 
open,  to  the  ridge  of  the  tiled  roof,  and  there  were  beams 
across.  Hay  and  straw  were  stored  in  that  portion  of  the 
place,  fagots  for  firing,  and  a heap  of  apples  in  sand. 
I had  to  pass  through  that  part,  to  get  at  the  other.  My 
memory  is  circumstantial  and  unshaken.  I try  it  with 
these  details,  and  I see  them  all,  in  this  my  cell  in  the 
Bastille,  near  the  close  of  the  tenth  year  of  my  captivity, 
as  I saw  them  all  that  night. 

“ On  some  hay  on  the  ground,  with  a cushion  thrown  un- 
der his  head,  lay  a handsome  peasant  boy — a boy  of  not 
more  than  seventeen  at  the  most.  He  lay  on  his  back, 
with  his  teeth  set,  his  right  hand  clenched  on  his  breast, 
and  his  glaring  eyes  looking  straight  upward.  I could  not 
see  where  his  wound  was,  as  I kneeled  on  one  knee  over 


308 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


him;  but,  I could  see  that  he  was  dying  of  a wound  from 
a sharp  point. 

“ ‘ I am  a doctor,  my  poor  fellow,’  said  I.  ‘ Let  me  ex- 
amine  it.’ 

“ ‘ I do  not  want  it  examined,’  he  answered;  ‘ let  it  be.’ 

“ It  was  under  his  hand,  and  I soothed  him  to  let  me 
move  his  hand  away.  The  wound  was  a sword-thrust,  re- 
ceived from  twenty  to  twenty-four  hours  before,  but  no 
skill  could  have  saved  him  if  it  had  been  looked  to  without 
delay.  He  was  then  dying  fast.  As  I turned  my  eyes  to 
the  elder  brother,  I saw  him  looking  down  at  this  hand- 
some boy  whose  life  was  ebbing  out,  as  if  he  were  a 
wounded  bird,  or  hare,  or  rabbit;  not  at  all  as  if  he  were  a 
fellow-creature. 

“ ‘ How  has  this  been  done,  monsieur?  ’ said  I. 

“‘A  crazed  young  common  dog!  A serf!  Forced  my 
brother  to  draw  upon  him,  and  has  fallen  by  my  brother’s 
sword — like  a gentleman.’ 

“ There  was  no  touch  of  pity,  sorrow,  or  kindred  human- 
ity, in  this  answer.  The  speaker  seemed  to  acknowledge 
that  it  was  inconvenient  to  have  that  different  order  of 
creature  dying  there,  and  that  it  would  have  been  better  if 
he  had  died  in  the  usual  obscure  routine  of  his  vermin  kind. 
He  was  quite  incapable  of  any  compassionate  feeling  about 
the  boy,  or  about  his  fate. 

“ The  boy’s  eyes  had  slowly  moved  to  him  as  he  had 
spoken,  and  they  now  slowly  moved  to  me. 

“‘Doctor,  they  are  very  proud,  these  Nobles;  but  we 
common  dogs  are  proud  too,  sometimes.  They  plunder  us, 
outrage  us,  beat  us,  kill  us;  but  we  have  a little  pride  left, 
sometimes.  She have  you  seen  her.  Doctor?  ’ 

“ The  shrieks  and  the  cries  were  audible  there,  though 
subdued  by  the  distance.  He  referred  to  them,  as  if  she 
were  lying  in  our  presence. 

“ I said,  ‘ I have  seen  her.’ 

“ ‘ She  is  my  sister.  Doctor.  They  have  had  their  shame-  i 
ful  rights,  these  Nobles,  in  the  modesty  and  virtue  of  our 
sisters,  many  years,  but  we  have  had  good  girls  among  us. 

I know  it,  and  have  heard  my  father  say  so.  She  was  a 
good  girl.  She  was  betrothed  to  a good  young  man,  too: 
a tenant  of  his.  We  were  all  tenants  of  his— that  man’s 
who  stands  there.  The  other  is  his  brother,  the  worst  of  a 
bad  race.’ 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


309 


greatest  difficulty  that  the  boy  gath- 

eJpS.‘“  '=“‘'  "•>■  * 

‘“We  were  so  robbed  by  that  man  who  stands  there,  as 
all  we  common  dogs  are  by  those  superior  Beings— taxed 
y hiin  without  mercy,  obliged  to  work  for  him  without 
5pay,  obliged  to  grind  our  corn  at  his  mill,  obliged  to  feed 
topn  wretched  crops,  and  forbid- 

pillaged  and  plundered  to  that  degree  that  when  we  chanced 

ind  ^ *^00^  barred 

4n0  ®bould  not  see  it 

^3  ™ robbed,  and  hunted, 

Ireadful  thing  to  bring  a child  into  the  world,  and  that 
vhat  we  should  most  pray  for,  was,  that  our  women  might 
oe^barren  and  our  miserable  race  die  out!  ’ ^ 

f I had  never  before  seen  the  sense  of  bein^  ODDressed 

r„;?n  i ‘‘  “St 

liesk  nnf  ^ ^‘'“owhere;  but,  I had  never  seen  it 

ueak  out,  until  I saw  it  in  the  dying  boy. 

married.  He  was  ail- 
gat  that  time,  poor  fellow,  and  she  married  her  lover 
^hat  she  might  tend  and  comfort  him  in  our  cottage— our 
log-hut,  as  that  man  would  call  it.  She  had  not  been  mar- 
led many  weeks,  when  that  man’s  brother  saw  her  and 
idmii-ed  her,  and  asked  that  man  to  lend  her  to  hir-for 
'hat  are  husbands  among  us ! He  was  willing  enough,  but 

virtuous,  and  hated  his  brother 
ith  a hatred  as  strong  as  mine.  What  did  the  two  then 

mKTr  wilXr  to 

‘.Zi*  wf “toe,  slowly 
= *be  looker-on,  and  I saw  in  the  two  faces  that  all 

opposing  kinds  of  pride  eon- 
mtle^p?"®  another  I can  see,  even  in  this  Bastille;  tlie 
1 ’ ^ ^ u?gbgent  indifference;  the  peasant’s,  all 

: °^[^®u-down  sentiment,  and  passionate  revenge. 

I tbe  Rights  of 

e Nobles  to  harness  us  common  dogs  to  carts,  and  drive 
■ Ihey  so  harnessed  him  and  drove  him.  You  know 
at  It  IS  among  their  Rights  to  keep  us  in  their  grounds 
ght,  quieting  the  frogs,  in  order  that  their  noble  sleep 


310 


A TALE  01’  TWO  CITIES. 


may  not  be  disturbed.  They  kept  him  out  in  the  unwhole- 
some mists  at  night,  and  ordered  him  back  into  his  harness 
in  the  day.  But  he  was  not  persuaded.  No ! Taken  out 
of  harness  one  day  at  noon,  to  feed — if  he  could  find  food 

he  sobbed  twelve  times,  once  for  every  stroke  of  the 

bell,  and  died  on  her  bosom.’ 

“ Nothing  human  could  have  held  life  in  the  boy  but  his 
determination  to  tell  all  his  wrong.  He  forced  back  the 
gathering  shadows  of  death,  as  he  forced  his  clenched  right 
hand  to  remain  clenched,  and  to  cover  his  wound. 

“ ‘ Then,  with  that  man’s  permission  and  even  with  his 
aid,  his  brother  took  her  away;  in  spite  of  what  I knov;  she 
must  have  told  his  brother — and  what  that  is,  will  not  be 
long  unknown  to  you.  Doctor,  if  it  is  now — ^his  brother  took 
her  away — for  his  pleasure  and  diversion,  for  a little  while. 

I saw  her  pass  me  on  the  road.  When  I took  the  tidings 
home,  our  father’s  heart  burst;  he  never  spoke  one  of  the 
words  that  filled  it.  I took  my  young  sister  (for  I have 
another)  to  a place  beyond  the  reach  of  this  man,  and 
where,  at  least,  she  will  never  be  his  vassal.  Then,  I 
tracked  the  brother  here,  and  last  night  climbed  in— a 
common  dog,  but  sword  in  hand. — 'Where  is  the  loft  win- 
dow? It  was  somewhere  here?  ’ 

“ The  room  was  darkening  to  his  sight;  the  world  was 
narrowing  around  him.  I glanced  about  me,  and  saw  that 
the  hay  and  straw  were  trampled  over  the  floor,  as  if  there 
had  been  a struggle. 

“ ‘ She  heard  me,  and  ran  in.  I told  her  not  to  come  near 
us  till  he  was  dead.  He  came  in  and  first  tossed  me  some 
pieces  of  money;  then  struck  at  me  with  a whip.  But  I, 
though  a common  dog,  so  struck  at  him  as  to  make  him 
draw.  Let  him  break  into  as  many  pieces  as  he  will,  the 
sword  that  he  stained  with  my  common  blood;  he  drew  to 
defend  himself — thrust  at  me  with  all  his  skill  for  his  life.’ 
My  glance  had  fallen,  but  a few  moments  before,  on 
the  fragments  of  a broken  sword,  lying  among  the  hay. 
That  weapon  was  a gentleman’s.  In  another  place,  lay  an 
old  sword  that  seemed  to  have  been  a soldier’s. 

“ ‘ Now,  lift  me  up.  Doctor;  lift  me  up.  Where  is  he? 

“ ‘ He  is  not  here,’  I said,  supporting  the  boy,  and  think- 
ing that  he  referred  to  the  brother. 

“ ‘ He ! Proud  as  these  nobles  are,  he  is  afraid  to  see  me. 
Where  is  the  man  who  was  here?  Turn  my  face  to  him. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


311 


I did  so,  raising  the  boy’s  head  against  iny  knee.  But, 
invested  for  the  moment  with  extraordinay  power,  he  raised 
himself  completely : obliging  me  to  rise  too,  or  I could  not 
li  have  still  supported  him. 

I ‘‘‘Marquis,’  said  the  boy,  turned  to  him  with  his  eyes 
I j opened  wide,  and  his  right  hand  raised,  ‘ in  the  days  when 
all  these  things  are  to  be  answered  for,  I summon  you  and 
yours,  to  the  last  of  your  bad  race,  to  answer  for  them.  I 
mark  this  cross  of  blood  upon  you,  as  a sign  that  I do  it. 
In  the  days  when  all  these  things  are  to  be  answered  for, 
I summon  your  brother,  the  worst  of  the  bad  race,  to  an- 
swer for  them  separately.  I mark  this  cross  of  blood  upon 
him;  as  a sign  that  I do  it.’ 

“Twice;  he  put  his  hand  to  the  wound  in  his  breast,  and 
with  his  forefinger  drew  a cross  in  the  air.  He  stood  for 
an  instant  with  the  finger  yet  raised,  and  as  it  dropped,  he 
dropped  with  it,  and  I laid  him  down  dead.  ^ ^ ^ * 

“ When  I returned  to  the  bedside  of  the  young  woman,  I 
found  her  raving  in  precisely  the  same  order  of  continuity. 
I knew  that  this  might  last  for  many  hours,  and  that  it 
would  probably  end  in  the  silence  of  the  grave. 

“ I repeated  the  medicines  I had  given  her,  and  I sat  at 
the  side  of  the  bed  until  the  night  was  far  advanced.  She 
never  abated  the  piercing  quality  of  her  shrieks,  never 
, stumbled  in  the  distinctness  or  the  order  of  her  words. 
They  were  always  ‘My  husband,  my  father,  and  my 
“rother!  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  eight, 
nine,  ten,  eleven,  twelve.  Hush ! ’ 

“ This  lasted  twenty-six  hours  from  the  time  when  I first 
;saw  her.  I had  come  and  gone  twice,  and  was  again  sit- 
ting by  her,  when  she  began  to  falter.  I did  what  little 
' could  be  done  to  assist  that  opportunity,  and  by-and-bye 
she  sank  into  a lethargy,  and  lay  like  the  dead. 

“ It  was  as  if  the  wind  and  rain  had  lulled  at  last,  after 
a long  and  fearful  storm.  I released  her  arms,  and  called 
I the  woman  to  assist  me  to  compose  her  figure  and  the  dress 
she  had  torn.  It  was  then  that  I knew  her  condition  to  be 
I bhat  of  one  in  whom  the  first  expectations  of  being  a mother 
'have  arisen;  and  it  was  then  that  I lost  the  little  hope  I 
!iiad  had  of  her. 

“ ‘ Is  she  dead?  ’ asked  the  Marquis,  whom  I will  still 
lescribe  as  the  elder  brother,  coming  booted  into  the  room 
‘ rora  his  horse. 


312 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


“ ‘ Not  dead,’  said  I;  ‘ but  like  to  die.’ 

“ ‘ What  strength  there  is  in  these  common  bodies ! ’ he 
said,  looking  down  at  her  with  some  curiosity. 

“ ‘ There  is  prodigious  strength,’  I answered  him,  ‘ in 
sorrow  and  despair.’ 

“ He  first  laughed  at  my  words,  and  then  frowned  at 
them.  He  moved  a chair  with  his  foot  near  to  mine,  or- 
dered the  woman  away,  and  said  in  a subdued  voice, 

“ ‘ Doctor,  finding  my  brother  in  this  difficulty  with  these 
hinds,  I recommended  that  your  aid  should  be  invited. 
Your  reputation  is  high,  and,  as  a young  man  with  your 
fortune  to  make,  you  are  probably  mindful  of  your  interest. 
The  things  that  you  see  here,  are  things  to  be  seen,  and  not 
spoken  of.’ 

“ I listened  to  the  patient’s  breathing,  and  avoided  an- 
swering. 

^ Do  you  honour  me  with  your  attention,  Doctor. 

“ ‘ Monsieur,’  said  I,  ‘ in  my  profession,  the  communica- 
tions of  patients  are  always  received  in  confidence.’  I was 
guarded  in  my  answer,  for  I was  troubled  in  my  mind  with 
what  I had  heard  and  seen. 

“ Her  breathing  was  so  difficult  to  trace,  that  I carefully 
tried  the  pulse  and  the  heart.  There  was  life,  and  no 
more.  Looking  round  as  I resumed  my  seat,  I found  both 
the  brothers  intent  upon  me.  * * * * 

“ I write  with  so  much  difficulty,  the  cold  is  so  severe,  I 
am  so  fearful  of  being  detected  and  consigned  to  an  under- 
ground cell  and  total  darkness,  that  I must  abridge  this 
narrative.  There  is  no  confusion  or  failure  in  my  memory; 
it  can  recall,  and  could  detail,  every  word  that  was  ever 
spoken  between  me  and  those  brothers. 

She  lingered  for  a week.  Towards  the  last,  I could 
understand  some  few  syllables  that  she  said  to  me,  by 
nlacing  my  ear  close  to  her  lips.  She  asked  me  where  she 
was,  and  I told  her;  who  I was,  and  I told  her.  It  was  in 
vain  that  I asked  her  for  her  family  name.  She  faintly 
shook  her  head  upon  the  pillow,  and  kept  her  secret,  as  the 

boy  had  done.  . 

“I  had  no  opportunity  of  asking  her  any  question,  until 
I had  told  the  brothers  she  was  sinking  fast,  and  could  not 
live  another  day.  Until  then,  though  no  one  was  ever  pre- 
sented to  her  consciousness  save  the  woman  and  myself, 
one  or  other  of  them  had  always  jealously  sat  behind  the 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


313 


curtain  at  the  head  of  the  bed  when  I was  there.  But 
when  it  came  to  that,  they  seemed  careless  what  communi- 
cation I might  hold  with  her;  as  if — the  thought  passed 
through  my  mind — I were  dying  too. 

I always  observed  that  their  pride  bitterly  resented  the 
younger  brother’s  (as  I call  him)  having  crossed  swords 
with  a peasant,  and  that  peasant  a boy.  The  only  consid- 
eration that  appeared  to  affect  the  mind  of  either  of  them 
was  the  consideration  that  this  was  highly  degrading  to 
the  family,  and  was  ridiculous.  As  often  as  I caught  the 
younger  brother’s  eyes,  their  expression  reminded  me  that 
he  disliked  me  deeply,  for  knowing  what  I knew  from  the 
boy.  He  was  smoother  and  more  polite  to  me  than  the 
elder;  but  I saw  this.  I also  saw  that  I was  an  incum- 
brance in  the  mind  of  the  elder,  too. 

My  patient  died,  two  hours  before  midnight — at  a time, 
by  my  watch,  answering  almost  to  the  minute  when  I had 
first  seen  her.  I was  alone  with  her,  when  her  forlorn 
young  head  drooped  gently  on  one  side,  and  all  her  earthly 
wrongs  and  sorrows  ended. 

‘^  The  brothers  were  waiting  in  a room  down-stairs,  im- 
patient to  ride  away.  I had  heard  them,  alone  at  the  bed- 
side, striking  their  boots  with  their  riding- whips,  and  loi- 
tering up  and  down. 

At  last  she  is  dead?  ’ said  the  elder,  when  I went 
in. 

‘ She  is  dead,’  said  I. 

I congratulate  you,  my  brother,’  were  his  words  as  he 
turned  round. 

He  had  before  offered  me  money,  which  I had  post- 
poned taking.  He  now  gave  me  a rouleau  of  gold.  I took 
it  from  his  hand,  but  laid  it  on  the  table.  I had  considered 
the  question,  and  had  resolved  to  accept  nothing. 

Pray  excuse  me,’  said  I.  ^ Under  the  circumstances, 
no.’  ’ 

They  exchanged  looks,  but  bent  their  heads  to  me  as  I 
bent  mine  to  them,  and  we  parted  without  another  word 
on  either  side.  * * * * 

I am  weary,  weary,  weary — worn  down  by  misery.  I 
cannot  read  what  I have  written  with  this  gaunt  hand. 

''Early  in  the  morning,  the  rouleau  of  gold  was  left  at 
my  door  in  a little  box,  with  my  name  on  the  outside, 
From  the  first,  I had  anxiously  considered  what  I ought  to 


314 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


do.  I decided,  that  day,  to  write  privately  to  the  Minister, 
stating  the  nature  of  the  two  cases  to  which  I had  been 
summoned,  and  the  place  to  which  I had  gone : in  effect, 
stating  all  the  circumstances.  I knew  what  Court  influence 
was,  and  what  the  immunities  of  the  Nobles  were,  and  I 
expected  that  the  matter  would  never  be  heard  of;  but,  I 
wished  to  relieve  my  own  mind,  I had  kept  the  matter  a 
profound  secret,  even  from  my  wife;  and  this,  too,  I re- 
solved to  state  in  my  letter.  I had  no  apprehension  what- 
ever of  my  real  danger;  but  I was  conscious  that  there 
might  be  danger  for  others,  if  others  were  compromised  by 
possessing  the  knowledge  that  I possessed^ 

I was  much  engaged  that  day,  and  could  not  complete 
my  letter  that  night.  I rose  long  before  my  usual  time 
next  morning  to  finish  it.  It  was  the  last  day  of  the  year. 
The  letter  was  lying  before  me  just  completed,  when  I 
was  told  that  a lady  waited,  who  wished  to  see  me.  * * * * 

I am  growing  more  and  more  unequal  to  the  task  I 
have  set  myself.  It  is  so  cold,  so  dark,  my  senses  are  so 
benumbed,  and  the  gloom  upon  me  is  so  dreadful. 

“ The  lady  was  young,  engaging,  and  handsome,  but  not 
marked  for  long  life.  She  was  in  great  agitation.  She 
presented  herself  to  me  as  the  wife  of  the  Marquis  St. 
Evremonde.  I connected  the  title  by  which  the  boy  had 
addressed  the  elder  brother,  with  the  initial  letter  embroid- 
ered on  the  scarf,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  arriving  at  the 
conclusion  that  I had  seen  that  nobleman  very  lately. 

My  memory  is  still  accurate,  but  I cannot  write  the 
words  of  our  conversation.  I suspect  that  I am  watched 
more  closely  than  I was,  and  I know  not  at  what  times  I 
may  be  watched.  She  had  in  part  suspected,  and  in  part 
discovered,  the  main  facts  of  the  cruel  story,  of  her  hus- 
band’s share  in  it,  and  my  being  resorted  to.  She  did  not 
know  that  the  girl  was  dead.  Her  hope  had  been,  she  said 
in  great  distress,  to  show  her,  in  secret,  a woman’s  sym- 
pathy. Her  hope  had  been  to  avert  the  wrath  of  Heaven 
from  a House  that  had  long  been  hateful  to  the  suffering 
many. 

She  had  reasons  for  believing  that  there  was  a young 
sister  living,  and  her  greatest  desire  was,  to  help  that  sis- 
ter. I could  tell  her  nothing  but  that  there  was  such  a 
sister;  beyond  that,  I knew  nothing.  Her  inducement  to 
come  to  me,  relying  on  my  confidence,  had  been  the  hope 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


315 


that  I could  tell  her  the  name  and  place  of  abode.  Where- 
as, to  this  wretched  hour  I am  ignorant  of  both.  * * * * 

These  scraps  of  paper  fail  me.  One  was  taken  from 
me,  with  a warning,  yesterday.  I must  finish  my  record 
to-day. 

She  was  a good,  compassionate  lady,  and  not  happy  in 
her  marriage.  How  could  she  be ! The  brother  distrusted 
and  disliked  her,  and  his  influence  was  all  opposed  to  her; 
she  stood  in  dread  of  him,  and  in  dread  of  her  husband  too. 
When  I handed  her  down  to  the  door,  there  was  a child,  a 
pretty  boy  from  two  to  three  years  old,  in  her  carriage. 

‘^‘For  his  sake.  Doctor,’  she  said,  pointing  to  him  in 
tears,  ‘ I would  do  all  I can  to  make  what  poor  amends  I 
can.  He  will  never  prosper  in  his  inheritance  otherwise. 
I have  a presentiment  that  if  no  other  innocent  atonement 
is  made  for  this,  it  will  one  day  be  required  of  him.  What 
1 have  left  to  call  my  own~it  is  little  beyond  the  worth  of 
a few  jewels — I will  make  it  the  first  charge  of  his  life  to 
bestow,  with  the  compassion  and  lamenting  of  his  dead 
mother,  on  this  injured  family,  if  the  sister  can  be  discov- 
ered.’ 

She  kissed  the  boy,  and  said,  caressing  him,  ^ It  is  for 
thine  own  dear  sake.  Thou  wilt  be  faithful,  little  Charles?  ’ 
The  child  answered  her  bravely,  ‘ Yes ! ’ I kissed  her 
hand,  and  she  took  him  in  her  arms,  and  went  away  caress- 
iug  him.  I never  saw  her  more. 

‘‘As  she  had  mentioned  her  husband’s  name  in  the  faith 
that  I knew  it,  I added  no  mention  of  it  to  my  letter.  I 
sealed  my  letter,  and,  not  trusting  it  out  of  my  own  hands, 
delivered  it  myself  that  day. 

“That  night,  the  last  night  of  the  year,  towards  nine 
o’clock,  a man  in  a black  dress  rang  at  my  gate,  demanded 
to  see  me,  and  softly  followed  my  servant,  Ernest  Defarge, 
a youth,  up-stairs.  When  my  servant  came  into  the  room 
where  I sat  with  my  wife — 0 my  wife,  beloved  of  my 
heart!  My  fair  young  English  wife! — we  saw  the  man, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  at  the  gate,  standing  silent  behind 
him. 

“An  urgent  case  in  the  Hue  St.  Honore,  he  said.  It 
would  not  detain  me,  he  had  a coach  in  waiting. 

“ It  brought  me  here,  it  brought  me  to  my  grave.  When 
I was  clear  of  the  house,  a black  muffler  was  drawn  tightly 
over  my  mouth  from  behind,  and  my  arms  were  pinioned 


316 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


The  two  brothers  crossed  the  road  from  a dark  comer, 
and  identified  me  with  a single  gesture.  The  Marquis 
took  from  his  pocket  the  letter  I had  written,  showed  it 
me,  burnt  it  in  the  light  of  a/ lantern  that  was  held,  and 
extinguished  the  ashes  with  his  foot.  Not  a word  was 
spoken.  I was  brought  here,  I was  brought  to  my  living 
grave. 

If  it  had  pleased  God  to  put  it  in  the  hard  heart  of 
either  of  the  brothers,  in  all  these  frightful  years,  to  grant 
me  any  tidings  of  my  dearest  wife — so  much  as  to  let  me 
know  by  a word  whether  alive  or  dead — I might  have 
thought  that  He  had  not  quite  abandoned  them.  But,  now 
I believe  that  the  mark  of  the  red  cross  is  fatal  to  them, 
and  that  they  have  no  part  in  His  mercies.  And  them  and 
their  descendants,  to  the  last  of  their  race,  I,  Alexandre 
Manette,  unhappy  prisoner,  do  this  last  night  of  the  year 
1767,  in  my  unbearable  agony,  denounce  to  the  times  when 
all  these  things  shall  be  answered  for.  I denounce  them 
to  Heaven  and  to  earth.” 

A terrible  sound  arose  when  the  reading  of  this  docu- 
ment was  done.  A sound  of  craving  and  eagerness  that 
had  nothing  articulate  in  it  but  blood.  The  narrative 
called  up  the  most  revengeful  passions  of  the  time,  and 
there  was  not  a head  in  the  nation  but  must  have  dropped 
before  it. 

Little  need,  in  presence  of  that  tribunal  and  that  audi- 
tory, to  show  how  the  Defarges  had  not  made  the  paper 
public,  with  the  other  captured  Bastille  memorials  borne  in 
procession,  and  had  kept  it,  biding  their  time.  Little  need 
to  show  that  this  detested  family  name  had  long  been  an- 
athematised by  Saint  Antoine,  and  was  wrought  into  the 
fatal  register.  The  man  never  trod  ground  whose  virtues 
and  services  would  have  sustained  him  in  that  place  that 
day,  against  such  denunciation. 

And  all  the  worse  for  the  doomed  man,  that  the  de- 
nouncer was  a well-known  citizen,  his  own  attached  friend, 
the  father  of  his  wife.  One  of  the  frenzied  aspirations  of 
the  populace  was,  for  imitations  of  the  questionable  public 
virtues  of  antiquity,  and  for  sacrifices  and  self-immolations 
on  the  people’s  altar.  Therefore  when  the  President  said 
(else  had  his  own  head  quivered  on  his  shoulders),  that  the 
good  physician  of  the  Bepublic  would  deserve  better  still 
of  the  Bepublic  by  rooting  out  an  obnoxious  family  of  Aris 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


317 


tocrats,  and  would  doubtless  feel  a sacred  glow  and  joy  in 
making  his  daughter  a widow  and  her  child  an  orphan, 
there  was  wild  excitement,  patriotic  fervour,  not  a touch 
of  human  sympathy. 

''  Much  influence  around  him,  has  that  Doctor?  ” mur- 
mured Madame  Defarge,  smiling  to  The  Vengeance.  ''  Save 
him  now,  my  Doctor,  save  him ! 

At  every  juryman’s  vote,  there  was  a roar.  Another 
and  another.  Koar  and  roar. 

Unanimously  voted.  At  heart  and  by  descent  an  Aris- 
tocrat, an  enemy  of  the  Republic,  a notorious  oppressor  of 
the  People.  Back  to  the  Conciergerie,  and  Death  within 
four-and-twenty  hours ! 


CHAPTER  XL 


DUSK. 

The  wretched  wife  of  the  innocent  man  thus  doomed  to 
die,  fell  under  the  sentence,  as  if  she  had  been  mortally 
stricken.  But,  she  uttered  no  sound;  and  so  strong  was 
the  voice  within  her,  representing  that  it  was  she  of  all  the 
world  who  must  uphold  him  in  his  misery  and  not  aug- 
ment it,  that  it  quickly  raised  her,  even  from  that  shock. 

I ^ The  Judges  having  to  take  part  in  a public  demonstra- 
tion out  of  doors,  the  tribunal  adjourned.  The  quick  noise 
and  movement  of  the  court’s  emptying  itself  by  many  pas- 
sages had  not  ceased,  when  Lucie  stood  stretching  out  her 
arms  towards  her  husband,  with  nothing  in  her  face  but 
love  and  consolation. 

If  I might  touch  him ! If  I might  embrace  him  once ! 
D,  good  citizens,  if  you  would  have  so  much  compassion 
tor  us ! ” 

There  was  but  a gaoler  left,  along  with  two  of  the  four 
men  who  had  taken  him  last  night,  and  Barsad.  The  peo- 
ole  had  all  poured  out  to  the  show  in  the  streets.  Barsad 
pioposed  to  the  rest,  ^^Let  her  embrace  him  then;  it  is  but 
I moment.”  It  was  silently  acquiesced  in,  and  they  passed 
ler  over  the  seats  in  the  hall  to  a raised  place,  where  he, 
3y  leaning  over  the  dock,  could  fold  her  in  his  arms. 

aiewell,  dear  darling  of  my  soul.  My  parting  bless- 


318 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


ing  on  my  love.  We  shall  meet  again,  where  the  weary 
are  at  rest ! ” 

They  were  her  husband’s  words,  as  he  held  her  to  his 
bosom. 

“I  can  bear  it,  dear  Charles.  I am  supported  from 
above;  don’t  suffer  for  me.  A parting  blessing  for  our 
child.” 

“ I send  it  to  her  by  you.  I kiss  her  by  you.  I say  fare- 
well to  her  by  you.” 

“My  husband.  No!  A moment!”  He  was  tearing 
himself  apart  from  her.  “We  shall  not  be  separated  long. 
I feel  that  this  will  break  my  heart  by-and-bye;  but  I will 
do  my  duty  while  I can,  and  when  I leave  her,  God  will 
raise  up  friends  for  her,  as  He  did  for  me.” 

Her  father  had  followed  her,  and  would  have  fallen  on 
his  knees  to  both  of  them,  but  that  Darnay  put  out  a hand 
and  seized  him,  crying : 

“No,  no!  What  have  you  done,  what  have  you  done, 
that  you  should  kneel  to  us ! We  know  now,  what  a strug- 
gle you  made  of  old.  We  know  now,  what  you  underwent 
when  you  suspected  my  descent,  and  when  you  knew  it. 
We  know  now,  the  natural  antipathy  you  strove  against, 
and  conquered,  for  her  dear  sake.  We  thank  you  with  all 
our  hearts,  and  all  our  love  and  duty.  Heaven  be  with 
you ! ” 

Her  father’s  only  answer  was  to  draw  his  hands  through 
his  white  hair,  and  wring  them  with  a shriek  of  anguish. 

“It  could  not  be  otherwise,”  said  the  prisoner.  “All 
things  have  worked  together  as  they  have  fallen  out.  It 
was  the  always- vain  endeavour  to  discharge  my  poor  moth- 
er’s trust  that  first  brought  my  fatal  presence  near  you. 
Good  could  never  come  of  such  evil,  a happier  end  was  not 
in  nature  to  so  unhappy  a beginning.  Be  comforted,  and 
forgive  me.  Heaven  bless  you ! ” 

As  he  was  drawn  away,  his  wife  released  him,  and  stood 
looking  after  him  with  her  hands  touching  one  another  in 
the  attitude  of  prayer,  and  with  a radiant  look  upon  her 
face,  in  which  there  was  even  a comforting  smile.  As  he 
went  out  at  the  prisoners’  door,  she  turned,  laid  her  head 
lovingly  on  her  father’s  breast,  tried  to  speak  to  him,  and 
fell  at  ins  feet. 

Then,  issuing  from  the  obscure  corner  from  which  he  had 
never  moved,  Sydney  Carton  came  and  took  her  up.  Only 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


819 


her  father  and  Mr.  Lorry  were  with  her.  His  arm  trembled 
as  it  raised  her,  and  supported  her  head.  Yet,  there  was 
an  air  about  him  that  was  not  all  of  pity— that  had  a flush 
of  pride  in  it. 

“ Shall  I take  her  to  a coach?  I shall  never  feel  her 
weight.” 

He  carried  her  lightly  to  the  door,  and  laid  her  tenderly 
down  in  a coach.  Her  father  and  their  old  friend  got  into 
it,  and  he  took  his  seat  beside  the  driver. 

^ When  they  arrived  at  the  gateway  where  he  had  paused 
in  the  dark  not  many  hours  before,  to  picture  to  himself 
on  which  of  the  rough  stones  of  the  street  her  feet  had 
‘ trodden,  he  lifted  her  again,  and  carried  her  up  the  stair- 
case to  their  rooms.  There,  he  laid  her  down  on  a couch, 
where  her  child  and  Miss  Pross  wept  over  her. 

t recall  her  to  herself, he  said,  softly,  to  the  lat- 
^ better  so.  Don’t  revive  her  to  consciousness, 
while  she  only  faints.” 

Oh,  Carton,  Carton,  dear  Carton!”  cried  little  Lucie, 
springing  up  and  throwing  her  arms  passionately  round  him 
in  a burst  of  grief.  ^'Now  that  you  have  come,  I think 
you  will  do  something  to  help  mamma,  something  to  save 
papa ! O,  look  at  her,  dear  Carton  ! Can  you,  of  all  the 
people  who  love  her,  bear  to  see  her  so?  ” 

He  bent  over  the  child,  and  laid  her  blooming  cheek 
against  his  face.  He  put  her  gently  from  him,  and  looked 
at  her  unconscious  mother. 

“ Before  I go,”  he  said,  and  paused — “ I may  kiss  her?  ” 
it  was  remembered  afterwards  that  when  he  bent  down 
and  touched  her  face  with  his  lips,  he  murmured  some 
words.  The  child,  who  was  nearest  to  him,  told  them 
afterwards,  and  told  her  grandchildren  when  she  was  a 
handsome  old  lady,  that  she  heard  him  say,  “A  life  you 

When  he  had  gone  out  into  the  next  room,  he  turned 
pddenly  on  Mr.  Lorry  and  her  father,  who  were  follow- 
ing,  and  said  to  the  latter: 

1 influence  but  yesterday,  Doctor  Manette; 

let  It  at  least  be  tried.  These  judges,  and  all  the  men  in 
power,  are  very  friendly  to  you,  and  very  recognisant  of 
your  services;  are  they  not?  ” 

I “Nothing  connected  with  Charles  was  concealed  from 
me.  I had  the  strongest  assurances  that  I should  save 


320 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


him;  and  I did.”  He  returned  the  answer  in  great  trou-  I 
ble,  and  very  slowly. 

‘‘Try  them  again.  The  hours  between  this  and  to-mor- 
row afternoon  are  few  and  short,  but  try.” 

“ I intend  to  try.  I will  not  rest  a moment.” 

“That’s  well.  I have  known  such  energy  as  yours  do 
great  things  before  now — though  never,”  he  added,  with  a 
smile  and  a sigh  together,  “ such  great  things  as  this.  But 
try ! Of  little  worth  as  life  is  when  we  misuse  it,  it  is 
worth  that  effort.  It  would  cost  nothing  to  lay  down  if  it  , 
were  not.” 

“I  will  go,”  said  Doctor  Manette,  “to  the  Prosecutor 
and  the  President  straight,  and  I will  go  to  others  whom  it 

is  better  not  to  name.  I will  write  too,  and But  stay! 

There  is  a celebration  in  the  streets,  and  no  one  will  be  ac- 
cessible until  dark.” 

“That’s  true.  Well!  It  is  a forlorn  hope  at  the  best, 
and  not  much  the  forlorner  for  being  delayed  till  dark.  I 
should  like  to  know  how  you  speed ; though,  mind ! I ex- 
pect nothing ! When  are  you  likely  to  have  seen  these 
dread  powers.  Doctor  Manette?  ” 

“Immediately  after  dark,  I should  hope.  Within  an 
hour  or  two  from  this.” 

“ It  will  be  dark  soon  after  four.  Let  us  stretch  the  i 
hour  or  two.  If  I go  to  Mr.  Lorry’s  at  nine,  shall  I hear 
what  you  have  done,  either  from  our  friend  or  from  your- 
self? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ May  you  prosper ! ” 

Mr.  Lorry  followed  Sydney  to  the  outer  door,  and, 
touching  him  on  the  shoulder  as  he  was  going  away,  caused 
him  to  turn. 

“I  have  no  hope,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  in  a low  and  sorrow- 
ful whisper. 

“Nor  have  I.” 

“If  any  one  of  these  men,  or  all  of  these  men,  were  dis- 
posed to  spare  him — which  is  a large  supposition;  for  what 
is  his  life,  or  any  man’s  to  them! — I doubt  if  they  durst 
spare  him  after  the  demonstration  in  the  court.” 

“And  so  do  I.  I heard  the  fall  of  the  axe  in  that 
sound.” 

Mr.  Lorry  leaned  his  arm  upon  the  door-post,  and  bowed 
his  face  upon  it. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


321 


Don’t  despond,”  said  Carton,  very  gently;  don’t 
grieve.  I encouraged  Doctor  Manette  in  this  idea,  because 
I felt  that  it  might  one  day  be  consolatory  to  her.  Other- 
wise, she  might  think  ^ his  life  was  wantonly  thrown  away 
or  wasted,’  and  that  might  trouble  her.” 

^‘Yes,  yes,  yes,”  returned  Mr.  Lorry,  drying  his  eyes, 
“you  are  right.  But  he  will  perish;  there  is  no  real 
hope.” 

“Yes.  He  will  perish : there  is  no  real  hope,”  echoed 
Carton.  And  walked  with  a settled  step,  down-stairs. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

DARKNESS. 

Sydney  Carton  paused  in  the  street,  not  quite  decided 
where  to  go.  “At  Tellson’s  banking-house  at  nine,”  he 
said,  with  a musing  face.  “ Shall  I do  well,  in  the  mean 
time,  to  show  myself?  I think  so.  It  is  best  that  these 
people  should  know  there  is  such  a man  as  I here;  it  is  a 
sound  precaution,  and  may  be  a necessary  preparation. 
But  care,  care,  care ! Let  me  think  it  out ! ” 

Checking  his  steps  which  had  begun  to  tend  towards  an 
object,  he  took  a turn  or  two  in  the  already  darkening 
street,  and  traced  the  thought  in  his  mind  to  its  possible 
consequences.  His  first  impression  was  confirmed.  “ It  is 
best,”  he  said,  finally  resolved,  “that  these  people  should 
know  there  is  such  a man  as  I here.”  And  he  turned  his 
face  towards  Saint  Antoine. 

Defarge  had  described  himself,  that  day,  as  the  keeper 
of  a wine-shop  in  the  Saint  Antoine  suburb.  It  was  not 
difficult  for  one  who  knew  the  city  well,  to  find  his  house 
without  asking  any  question.  Having  ascertained  its  situ- 
ation, Carton  came  out  of  those  closer  streets  again,  and 
dined  at  a^  place  of  refreshment  and  fell  sound  asleep  after 
dinner.  l or  the  first  time  in  many  years,  he  had  no  strong 
drink.  Since  last  night  he  had  taken  nothing  but  a little 
light  thin  wine,  and  last  night  he  had  dropped  the  brandy 
slowly  down  on  Mr.  Lorry’s  hearth  like  a man  who  had 
done  with  it. 

It  was  as  late  as  seven  o’clock  when  he  awoke  refreshed, 

21 


322 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


and  went  out  into  the  streets  again.  As  he  passed  along 
towards  Saint  Antoine,  he  stopped  at  a shop- window  where 
there  was  a mirror,  and  slightly  altered  the  disordered  ar- 
rangement of  his  loose  cravat,  and  his  coat-collar,  and  his 
wild  hair.  This  done,  he  went  on  direct  to  Defarge’s,  and 
went  in. 

There  happened  to  be  no  customer  in  the  shop  but 
Jacques  Three,  of  the  restless  fingers  and  the  croaking 
voice.  This  man,  whom  he  had  seen  upon  the  Jury,  stood 
drinking  at  the  little  counter,  in  conversation  with  the 
Defarges,  man  and  wife.  The  Vengeance  assisted  in  the 
conversation,  like  a regular  member  of  the  establishment. 

As  Carton  walked  in,  took  his  seat  and  asked  (in  very 
indifferent  French)  for  a small  measure  of  wine,  Madame 
Defarge  cast  a careless  glance  at  him,  and  then  a keener, 
and  then  a keener,  and  then  advanced  to  him  herself,  and 
asked  him  what  it  was  he  had  ordered. 

He  repeated  what  he  had  already  said. 

English?  ” asked  Madame  Defarge,  inquisitively  rais- 
ing her  dark  eyebrows. 

After  looking  at  her,  as  if  the  sound  of  even  a single 
French  word  were  slow  to  express  itself  to  him,  he  an- 
swered, in  his  former  strong  foreign  accent.  Yes,  mad- 
ame,  yes.  T am  English! 

Madame  Defarge  returned  to  her  counter  to  get  the 
wine,  and,  as  he  took  up  a Jacobin  journal  and  feigned  to 
pore  over  it  puzzling  out  its  meaning,  he  heard  her  say, 
swear  to  you,  like  Evremonde ! ” 

Defarge  brought  him  the  wine,  and  gave  him  Good 
Evening. 

How? 

Good  evening.’’ 

‘^Oh!  Good  evening,  citizen,”  filling  his  glass.  ‘‘Ah! 
and  good  wine.  I drink  to  the  Republic.” 

Defarge  went  back  to  the  counter,  and  said,  “Certainly, 
a little  like.”  Madame  sternly  retorted,  “ I tell  you  a good 
deal  like.”  Jacques  Three  pacifically  remarked,  “ He  is  so 
much  in  your  mind,  see  you,  madame.”  The  amiable  Venge- 
ance added,  with  a laugh  “Yes,  my  faith!  And  you  are 
looking  forward  with  so  much  pleasure  to  seeing  him  once 
more  to-morrow ! ” 

Carton  followed  the  lines  and  words  of  his  paper,  with 
a slow  forefinger,  and  with  a studious  and  absorbed  face. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


323 


They  were  all  leaning  their  arms  on  the  counter  close  to- 
gether, speaking  low.  After  a silence  of  a few  moments, 
during  which  they  all  looked  towards  him  without  disturb- 
ing his  outward  attention  from  the  Jacobin  editor,  they 
resumed  their  conversation. 

It  is  true  what  madame  says,’^  observed  Jacques  Three. 

Why  stop?  There  is  great  force  in  that.  Why  stop?  ” 

‘‘Well,  well,”  reasoned  Defarge,  “but  one  must  stop 
somewhere.  After  all,  the  question  is  still  where?  ” 

“At  extermination,”  said  madame. 

“Magnificent!”  croaked  Jacques  Three.  The  Venge- 
ance, also,  highly  approved. 

“Extermination  is  good  doctrine,  my  wife,”  said  De- 
farge, rather  troubled;  “in  general,  I say  nothing  against 
it.  But  this  Doctor  has  suffered  much;  you  have  seen  him 
to-day;  you  have  observed  his  face  when  the  paper  was 
read.” 

“ I have  observed  his  face ! ” repeated  madame,  con- 
temptuously and  angrily.  “ Yes.  I have  observed  his 
face.  I have  observed  his  face  to  be  not  the  face  of  a true 
friend  of  the  Bepublic.  Let  him  take  care  of  his  face ! ” 

“And  you  have  observed,  my  wife,”  said  Defarge,  in  a 
deprecatory  manner,  “ the  anguish  of  his  daughter,  which 
must  be  a dreadful  anguish  to  him ! ” 

“I  have  observed  his  daughter,”  repeated  madame; 
“yes,  I have  observed  his  daughter,  more  times  than  one. 
I have  observed  her  to-day,  and  I have  observed  her  other 
days.  I have  observed  her  in  the  court,  and  I have  ob- 
served her  in  the  street  by  the  prison.  Let  me  but  lift  my 

finger !”  She  seemed  to  raise  it  (the  listener’s  eyes 

were  always  on  his  paper),  and  to  let  it  fall  with  a rattle 
on  the  ledge  before  her,  as  if  the  axe  had  dropped. 

“The  citizeness  is  superb!  ” croaked  the  Juryman. 

“ She  is  an  Angel!  ” said  The  Vengeance,  and  embraced 
her. 

“As  to  thee,”  pursued  madame,  implacably,  addressing 
her  husband,  “ if  it  depended  on  thee — which,  happily,  it 
does  not — thou  wouldst  rescue  this  man  even  now.” 

“No!”  protested  Defarge.  “Not  if  to  lift  this  glass 
would  do  it!  But  I would  leave  the  matter  there.  I say, 
stop  there.” 

“See  you  then,  Jacques,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  wrath- 
fully;  “and  see  you,  too,  my  little  Vengeance;  see  you 


324 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


both ! Listen ! For  other  crimes  as  tyrants  and  oppres- 
sors, I have  this  race  a long  time  on  my  register,  doomed  to 
destruction  and  extermination.  Ask  my  husband,  is  that 
so.” 

^^It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge,  without  being  asked. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  great  days,  when  the  Bastille 
falls,  he  finds  this  paper  of  to-day,  and  he  brings  it  homie, 
and  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when  this  place  is  clear  and 
shut,  we  read  it,  here  on  this  spot,  by  the  light  of  this 
lamp.  Ask  him,  is  that  so.” 

^*It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge. 

‘^That  night,  I tell  him,  when  the  paper  is  read  through, 
and  the  lamp  is  burnt  out,  and  the  day  is  gleaming  in 
above  those  shutters  and  between  those  iron  bars,  that 
I have  now  a secret  to  communicate.  Ask  him,  is  that 
so.” 

‘^It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge  again. 

I communicate  to  him  that  secret.  I smite  this  bosom 
with  these  two  hands  as  I smite  it  now,  and  I tell  him, 
^ Defarge,  I was  brought  up  among  the  fishermen  of  the 
sea-shore,  and  that  peasant  family  so  injured  by  the  two 
Evremonde  brothers,  as  that  Bastille  paper  describes,  is 
my  family.  Defarge,  that  sister  of  the  mortally  wounded 
boy  upon  the  ground  was  my  sister,  that  husband  was  my 
sister’s  husband,  that  unborn  child  was  their  child,  that 
brother  was  my  brother,  that  father  was  my  father,  those 
dead  are  my  dead,  and  that  summons  to  answer  for  those 
things  descends  to  me!  ’ Ask  him,  is  that  so.” 

“It  is  so,”  assented  Defarge  once  more. 

“Then  tell  Wind  and  Fire  where  to  stop,”  returned  mad- 
ame;  “ but  don’t  tell  me.” 

Both  her  hearers  derived  a horrible  enjoyment  from  the 
deadly  nature  of  her  wrath — the  listener  could  feel  how 
white  she  was,  without  seeing  her — and  both  highly  com- 
mended it.  Defarge,  a weak  minority,  interposed  a few 
words  for  the  memory  of  the  compassionate  wife  of  the 
Marquis;  but  only  elicited  from  his  own  wife  a repetition 
of  her  last  reply.  “Tell  the  Wind  and  the  Fire  where  to 
stop;  not  me!” 

Customers  entered,  and  the  group  was  broken  up.  The 
English  customer  paid  for  what  he  had  had,  perplexedly 
counted  his  change,  and  asked,  as  a stranger,  to  be  directed 
towards  the  National  Palace.  Madame  Defarge  took  him 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


325 


to  the  door,  and  put  her  arm  on  his,  in  pointing  out  the 
road.  The  English  customer  was  not  without  his  reflections 
then,  that  it  might  be  a good  deed  to  seize  that  arm,  lift  it, 
and  strike  under  it  sharp  and  deep. 

But,  he  went  his  way,  and  was  soon  swallowed  up  in 
the  shadow  of  the  prison  wall.  At  the  appointed  hour,  he 
emerged  from  it  to  present  himself  in  Mr.  Lorry’s  room 
again,  where  he  found  the  old  gentleman  walking  to  and 
fro  in  restless  anxiety.  He  said  he  had  been  with  Lucie 
until  just  now,  and  had  only  left  her  for  a few  minutes, 
to  come  and  keep  his  appointment.  Her  father  had  not 
been  seen,  since  he  quitted  the  banking-house  towards 
four  o’clock.  She  had  some  faint  hopes  that  his  me- 
diation might  save  Charles,  but  they  were  very  slight. 
He  had  been  more  than  five  hours  gone : where  could  he 
be? 

Mr.  Lorry  waited  until  ten;  but.  Doctor  Manette  not  re- 
turning, and  he  being  unwilling  to  leave  Lucie  any  longer, 
it  was  arranged  that  he  should  go  back  to  her,  and  come  to 
the  banking-house  again  at  midnight.  In  the  meanwhile. 
Carton  would  wait  alone  by  the  fire  for  the  Doctor. 

He  waited  and  waited,  and  the  clock  struck  twelve;  but 
Doctor  Manette  did  not  come  back.  Mr.  Lorry  returned, 
and  found  no  tidings  of  him,  and  brought  none.  Where 
could  he  be? 

They  were  discussing  this  question,  and  were  almost 
building  up  some  weak  structure  of  hope  on  his  prolonged 
absence,  when  they  heard  him  on  the  stairs.  The  instant 
he  entered  the  room,  it  was  plain  that  all  was  lost. 

^^  hether  he  had  really  been  to  any  one,  or  whether  he 
had  been  all  that  time  traversing  the  streets,  was  never 
known.  As  he  stood  staring  at  them,  they  asked  him  no 
question,  for  his  face  told  them  everything. 

''  I cannot  find  it,”  said  he,  and  I must  have  it.  Where 
is  it?  ” 

His  head  and  throat  were  bare,  and,  as  he  spoke  with  a 
helpless  look  straying  all  around,  he  took  his  coat  off,  and 
let  it  drop  on  the  floor. 

Where  is  my  bench?  I have  been  looking  everywhere 
for  my  bench,  and  I can’t  find  it.  What  have  they  done 
with  my  work?  Time  presses:  I must  finish  those  shoes.” 

They  looked  at  one  another,  and  their  hearts  died  within 
them. 


326 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


‘‘Come,  come!”  said  he,  in  a whimpering  miserable 
way;  “let  me  get  to  work.  Give  me  my  work.” 

Receiving  no  answer,  he  tore  his  hair,  and  beat  his  feet 
upon  the  ground,  like  a distracted  child. 

“ Don’t  torture  a poor  forlorn  wretch,”  he  implored  them, 
with  a dreadful  cry;  “but  give  me  my  work!  What  is  to 
become  of  us,  if  those  shoes  are  not  done  to-night?  ” 

Lost,  utterly  lost! 

It  was  so  clearly  beyond  hope  to  reason  with  him,  or  try 
to  restore  him, — that — as  if  by  agreement — they  each  put 
a hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  soothed  him  to  sit  down  be- 
fore the  fire,  with  a promise  that  he  should  have  his  work 
presently.  He  sank  into  the  chair,  and  brooded  over  the 
embers,  and  shed  tears.  As  if  all  that  had  happened  since 
the  garret  time  were  a momentary  fancy,  or  a dream,  Mr. 
Lorry  saw  him  shrink  into  the  exact  figure  that  Defarge 
had  had  in  keeping. 

Affected,  and  impressed  with  terror  as  they  both  were, 
by  this  spectacle  of  ruin,  it  was  not  a time  to  yield  to  such 
emotions.  His  lonely  daughter,  bereft  of  her  final  hope 
and  reliance,  appealed  to  them  both  too  strongly.  Again, 
as  if  by  agreement,  they  looked  at  one  another  with  one 
meaning  in  their  faces.  Carton  was  the  first  to  speak : 
“The  last  chance  is  gone:  it  was  not  much.  Yes;  he 
had  better  be  taken  to  her.  But,  before  you  go,  will  you, 
for  a moment,  steadily  attend  to  me?  Don’t  ask  me  why 
I make  the  stipulations  I am  going  to  make,  and  exact  the 
promise  I am  going  to  exact;  I have  a reason — a good  one.” 
“I  do  not  doubt  it,”  answered  Mr.  Lorry.  “ Say  on.” 
The  figure  in  the  chair  between  them,  was  all  the  time 
monotonously  rocking  itself  to  and  fro,  and  moaning.  They 
spoke  in  such  a tone  as  they  would  have  used  if  they  had 
been  watching  by  a sick-bed  in  the  night. 

Carton  stooped  to  pick  up  the  coat,  which  lay  almost  en- 
tangling his  feet.  As  he  did  so,  a small  case  in  which  the 
Doctor  was  accustomed  to  carry  the  lists  of  his  day’s  du- 
ties, fell  lightly  on  the  floor.  Carton  took  it  up,  and  there 
was  a folded  paper  in  it.  “We  should  look  at  this!  he 
said.  Mr.  Lorry  nodded  his  consent.  He  opened  it,  and 
exclaimed,  “ Thank  God  ! ” 

“ What  is  it?  ” asked  Mr.  Lorry,  eagerly. 

“A  moment!  Let  me  speak  of  it  in  its  place.  First,” 
he  put  his  hand  in  his  coat,  and  took  another  paper  from 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES.  327 

it,  ^ that  is  the  certificate  which  enables  me  to  pass  out  of 
this  city.  Look  at  it.  You  see — Sydney  Carton,  an  Eng- 
lishman? 

Mr.  Lorry  held  it  open  in  his  hand,  gazing  in  his  earnest 
face. 

Keep  it  for  me  until  to-morrow.  I shall  see  him  to- 
morrow, you  remember,  and  I had  better  not  take  it  into 
the  prison. 

Why  not?  ” 

I don^t  know;  I prefer  not  to  do  so.  Now,  take  this 
paper  that  Doctor  Manette  has  carried  about  him.  It  is  a 
similar  certificate,  enabling  him  and  his  daughter  and  her 
child,  at  any  time,  to  pass  the  barrier  and  the  frontier ! 
You  see? 

‘‘Yes!'' 

Perhaps  he  obtained  it  as  his  last  and  utmost  precau- 
tion against  evil  yesterday.  When  is  it  dated?  But  no 
matter;  don't  stay  to  look;  put  it  up  carefully  with  mine 
and  your  own.  Kow,  observe!  I never  doubted  until 
within  this  hour  or  two,  that  he  had,  or  could  have  such  a 
paper.  It  is  good,  until  recalled.  I3ut  it  may  be  soon  re- 
called, and,  I have  reason  to  think,  will  be." 

“ They  are  not  in  danger?  " 

“They  are  in  great  danger.  They  are  in  danger  of  de- 
nunciation by  Madame  Defarge.  I know  it  from  her  own 
lips.  I have  overheard  words  of  that  woman's,  to-night, 
which  have  presented  their  danger  to  me  in  strong  colours. 

I have  lost  no  time,  and  since  then,  I have  seen  the  spy. 

e confirms  me.  He  knows  that  a wood-sawyer,  living 
by  the  prison- wall,  is  under  the  control  of  the  Defarges, 
and  has  been  rehearsed  by  Madame  Defarge  as  to  his  hav- 
ing seen  Her"— he  never  mentioned  Lucie’s  name— “mak- 
mg  signs  and  signals  to  prisoners.  It  is  easy  to  foresee 
that  the  pretence  will  be  the  common  one,  a prison  plot, 
and  that  it  will  involve  her  life— and  perhaps  her  child's 
—and  perhaps  her  father's— for  both  have  been  seen  with 
her  at  that  place.  Don't  look  so  horrified.  You  will  save 
them  all." 

‘‘  Heaven  grant  I may.  Carton ! But  how?  " 

I am  going  to  tell  you  how.  It  will  depend  on  you, 
and  It  could  depend  on  no  better  man.  This  new  denun- 
ciation will  certainly  not  take  place  until  after  to-morrow 
probably  not  until  two  or  three  days  afterwards;  more 


328 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


probably  a week  afterwards.  You  know  it  is  a capital 
crime,  to  mourn  for,  or  sympathise  with,  a victim  of  the 
Guillotine.  She  and  her  father  would  unquestionably  be 
guilty  of  this  crime,  and  this  woman  (the  inveteracy  of 
whose  pursuit  cannot  be  described)  would  wait  to  add  that 
strength  to  her  case,  and  make  herself  doubly  sure.  You 
follow  me?  ” 

So  attentively,  and  with  so  much  confidence  in  what 
you  say,  that  for  the  moment  I lose  sight, touching  the 
back  of  the  Doctor’s  chair,  ^^even  of  this  distress.” 

You  have  money,  and  can  buy  the  means  of  travelling 
to  the  sea-coast  as  quickly  as  the  journey  can  be  made. 
Your  preparations  have  been  completed  for  some  days,  to 
return  to  England.  Early  to-morrow  have  your  horses 
ready,  so  that  they  may  be  in  starting  trim  at  two  o’clock 
in  the  afternoon.” 

It  shall  be  done ! ” 

His  manner  was  so  fervent  and  inspiring,  that  Mr.  Lorry 
caught  the  flame,  and  was  as  quick  as  youth. 

You  are  a noble  heart.  Did  I say  we  could  depend  upon 
no  better  man?  Tell  her,  to-night,  what  you  know  of  her 
danger  as  involving  her  child  and  her  father.  Dwell  upon 
that,  for  she  would  lay  her  own  fair  head  beside  her  hus- 
band’s cheerfully.”  He  faltered  for  an  instant;  then  went 
on  as  before.  For  the  sake  of  her  child  and  her  father, 
press  upon  her  the  necessity  of  leaving  Paris,  with  them 
and  you,  at  that  hour.  Tell  her  that  it  was  her  husband’s 
last  arrangement.  Tell  her  that  more  depends  upon  it  than 
she  dare  believe,  or  hope.  You  think  that  her  father,  even 
in  this  sad  state,  will  submit  himself  to  her;  do  you  not?  ” 
am  sure  of  it.” 

I thought  so.  Quietly  and  steadily  have  all  these  ar- 
rangements made  in  the  courtyard  here,  even  to  the  tak- 
ing of  your  own  seat  in  the  carriage.  The  moment  I come 
to  you,  take  me  in,  and  drive  away.” 

‘‘I  understand  that  I wait  for  you  under  all  circum- 
stances? ” 

You  have  my  certificate  in  your  hand  with  the  rest, 
you  know,  and  will  reserve  my  place.  Wait  for  nothing 
but  to  have  my  place  occupied,  and  then  for  England ! ” 

Why,  then,”  said  Mr.  Lorry,  grasping  his  eager  but  so 
firm  and  steady  hand,  ^^it  does  not  all  depend  on  one  old 
man,  but  I shall  have  a young  and  ardent  man  at  my  side.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


329 


By  the  help  of  Heaven  you  shall ! Promise  me  sol- 
emnly that  nothing  will  influence  you  to  alter  the  course  on 
which  we  now  stand  pledged  to  one  another. 

Nothing,  Carton.’^ 

Bemember  these  words  to-morrow : change  the  course, 
or  delay  in  it — for  any  reason — and  no  life  can  possibly  be 
saved,  and  many  lives  must  inevitably  be  sacrificed.” 

I will  remember  them.  I hope  to  do  my  part  faith- 
fully.” ^ 

‘‘And  I hope  to  do  mine.  Now,  good  bye ! ” 

Though  he  said  it  with  a grave  smile  of  earnestness,  and 
though  he  even  put  the  old  man's  hand  to  his  lips,  he  did 
not  part  from  him  then.  He  helped  him  so  far  to  arouse 
the  rocking  figure  before  the  dying  embers,  as  to  get  a 
cloak  and  hat  put  upon  it,  and  to  tempt  it  forth  to  find 
where  the  bench  and  work  were  hidden  that  it  still  moan- 
besought  to  have.  He  walked  on  the  other  side  of  it 
and  protected  it  to  the  courtyard  of  the  house  where  the 
afflicted  heart — so  happy  in  the  memorable  time  when  he 
had  revealed  his  own  desolate  heart  to  it — outwatched  the 
awful  night.  He  entered  the  courtyard  and  remained 
there  for  a few  moments  alone,  looking  up  at  the  light 
in  the  window  of  her  room.  Before  he  went  away,  he 
breathed  a blessing  towards  it,  and  a Farewell. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

FIFTY-TWO. 

In  the  black  prison  of  the  Conciergerie,  the  doomed  of 
the  day  awaited  their  fate.  They  were  in  number  as  the 
weeks  of  the  year.  Fifty-two  were  to  roll  that  afternoon 
on  the  life-tide  of  the  city  to  the  boundless  everlasting  sea. 
Before  their  cells  were  quit  of  them,  new  occupants  were 
appointed;  before  their  blood  ran  into  the  blood  spilled 
yesterday,  the  blood  that  was  to  mingle  with  theirs  to-mor- 
row was  already  set  apart. 

Two  score  and  twelve  were  told  off.  From  the  farmer- 
general  of  seventy,  whose  riches  could  not  buy  his  life,  to 
the  seamstress  of  twenty,  whose  poverty  and  obscurity 
could  not  save  her.  Physical  diseases,  engendered  in  the 


330 


A TAI.E  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


vices  and  neglects  of  men,  will  seize  on  victims  of  all  de- 
grees; and  the  frightful  moral  disorder,  born  of  unspeakable 
suffering,  intolerable  oppression,  and  heartless  indifference, 
smote  equally  without  distinction. 

Charles  Darnay,  alone  in  a cell,  had  sustained  himself 
with  no  flattering  delusion  since  he  came  to  it  from  the  Tri- 
bunal. In  every  line  of  the  narrative  he  had  heard,  he  had 
heard  his  condemnation.  He  had  fully  comprehended  that 
no  personal  influence  could  possibly  save  him,  that  he  was 
virtually  sentenced  by  the  millions,  and  that  units  could 
avail  him  nothing. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  not  easy,  with  the  face  of  his  be- 
loved wife  fresh  before  him,  to  compose  his  mind  to  what 
it  must  bear.  His  hold  on  life  was  strong,  and  it  was 
very,  very  hard,  to  loosen;  by  gradual  efforts  and  degrees 
unclosed  a little  here,  it  clenched  the  tighter  there;  and 
when  he  brought  his  strength  to  bear  on  that  hand  and  it 
yielded,  this  was  closed  again.  There  was  a hurry,  too,  in 
all  his  thoughts,  a turbulent  and  heated  working  of  his 
heart,  that  contended  against  resignation.  If,  for  a mo- 
ment, he  did  feel  resigned,  then  his  wife  and  child  who 
had  to  live  after  him,  seemed  to  protest  and  to  make  it  a 
selfish  thing. 

But,  all  this  was  at  first.  Before  long,  the  considera- 
tion that  there  was  no  disgrace  in  the  fate  he  must  meet, 
and  that  numbers  went  the  same  road  wrongfully,  and  trod 
it  firmly  every  day,  sprang  up  to  stimulate  him.  Next  fol- 
lowed the  thought  that  much  of  the  future  peace  of  mind 
enjoyable  by  the  dear  ones,  depended  on  his  quiet  fortitude. 
So,  by  degrees  he  calmed  into  the  better  state,  when  he 
could  raise  his  thoughts  much  higher,  and  draw  comfort 
down. 

Before  it  had  set  in  dark  on  the  night  of  his  condemna- 
tion, he  had  travelled  thus  far  on  his  last  way.  Being  al- 
lowed to  purchase  the  means  of  writing,  and  a light,  he  sat 
down  to  write  until  such  time  as  the  prison  lamps  should 
be  extinguished. 

He  wrote  a long  letter  to  Lucie,  showing  her  that  he  had 
known  nothing  of  her  father’s  imprisonment,  until  he  had 
heard  of  it  from  herself,  and  that  he  had  beeii  as  ignorant 
as  she  of  his  father’s  and  uncle’s  responsibility  for  that 
misery,  until  the  paper  had  been  read.  He  had  already 
explained  to  her  that  his  concealment  from  herself  of  the 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


331 


name  he  had  relinquished,  was  the  one  condition — fully  in- 
telligible  now — that  her  father  had  attached  to  their  be- 
trothal, and  was  the  one  promise  he  had  still  exacted  on 
the  morning  of  their  marriage.  He  entreated  her,  for  her 
father’s  sake,  never  to  seek  to  know  whether  her  father 
had  become  oblivious  of  the  existence  of  the  paper,  or  had 
had  it  recalled  to  him  (for  tlie  moment,  or  for  good),  by 
the  story  of  the  Tower,  on  that  old  Sunday  under  the  dear 
old  plane-tree  in  the  garden.  If  he  had  preserved  any 
definite  remembrance  of  it,  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  he 
had  supposed  it  destroyed  with  the  Bastille,  when  he  had 
found  no  mention  of  it  among  the  relics  of  prisoners  which 
the  populace  had  discovered  there,  and  which  had  been  de- 
scribed to  all  the  world.  He  besought  her — though  he 
added  that  he  knew  it  was  needless — to  console  her  father, 
by  impressing  him  through  every  tender  means  she  could 
think  of,  with  the  truth  that  he  had  done  nothing  for  which 
he  could  justly  reproach  himself,  but  had  uniformly  for- 
gotten hiniself  for  their  joint  sakes.  Next  to  her  preserva- 
,tion  of  his  own  last  grateful  love  and  blessing,  and  her 
overcoming  of  her  sorrow,  to  devote  herself  to  their  dear 
child,  he  adjured  her,  as  they  would  meet  in  Heaven,  to 
comfort  her  father. 

To  her  father  himself,  he  wrote  in  the  same  strain;  but, 
he  told  her  father  that  he  expressly  confided  his  wife  and 
child  to  his  care.  And  he  told  him  this,  very  strongly, 
with  the  hope  of  rousing  him  from  any  despondency  or 
.langerous  retrospect  towards  which  he  foresaw  he  might  be 
:ending. 

To  Mr.  Lorry,  he  commended  them  all,  and  explained 
.ns  worldly  affairs.  That  done,  with  many  added  sen- 
tences of  grateful  friendship  and  warm  attachment,  all  was 
lone.  He  never  thought  of  Carton.  His  mind  was  so  full 
, )f  the  others,  that  he  never  once  thought  of  him. 

He  had  time  to  finish  these  letters  before  the  lights  were 
|,)ut  out.  When  he  lay  down  on  his  straw  bed,  he  thought 
1 le  had  done  with  this  world. 

1 But,  it  beckoned  him  back  in  his  sleep,  and  showed  it- 
. elf  in  shining  forms.  Free  and  happy,  back  in  the  old 
; ouse  in  Soho  (though  it  had  nothing  in  it  like  the  real 
I ^’■.^^‘^countably  released  and  light  of  heart,  he  was 

I nth  Lucie  again,  and  she  told  him  it  was  all  a dream,  and 
; e had  never  gone  away.  A pause  of  forgetfulness,  and 


332 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


then  he  had  oven  suffered,  and  had  come  back  to  her,  dead 
and  at  peace,  and  yet  there  was  no  difference  in  him.  An- 
other pause  of  oblivion,  and  he  awoke  in  the  sombre 
morning,  unconscious  where  he  was  or  what  had  happened, 
until  it  flashed  upon  his  mind,  “this  is  the  day  of  my 
death 

Thus,  had  he  come  through  the  hours,  to  the  day  when 
the  fifty-two  heads  were  to  fall.  And  now,  while  he  was 
composed,  and  hoped  that  he  could  meet  the  end  with  quiet 
heroism,  a new  action  began  in  his  waking  thoughts,  which 
was  very  difficult  to  master. 

He  had  never  seen  the  instrument  that  was  to  terminate 
his  life.  How  high  it  was  from  the  ground,  how  many 
steps  it  had,  where  he  would  be  stood,  how  he  would  be 
touched,  whether  the  touching  hands  would  be  dyed  red, 
which  way  his  face  would  be  turned,  whether  he  would  be 
the  first,  or  might  be  the  last:  these  and  many  similar 
questions,  in  nowise  directed  by  his  will,  obtruded  them- 
selves over  and  over  again,  countless  times.  Neither  were 
they  connected  with  fear:  he  was  conscious  of  no  fear. 
Eather,  they  originated  in  a strange  besetting  desire  to 
know  what  to  do  when  the  time  »came;  a desire  gigantically 
disproportionate  to  the  few  swift  moments  to  which  it  re- 
ferred; a wondering  that  was  more  like  the  wondering  of 
some  other  spirit  within  his,  than  his  own. 

The  hours  went  on  as  he^  walked  to  and  fro,  and  the 
clocks  struck  the  numbers  he  would  never  hear  again. 
Nine  gone  for  ever,  ten  gone  for  ever,  eleven  gone  for  ever, 
twelve  coming  on  to  pass  away.  After  a hard  contest  with 
that  eccentric  action  of  thought  which  had  last  perplexed 
him,  he  had  got  the  better  of  it.  He  walked  up  and  down, 
softly  repeating  their  names  to  himself.  The  worst  of  the 
strife  was  over.  He  could  walk  up  and  down,  free  from 
distracting  fancies,  praying  for  himself  and  for  them. 

Twelve  gone  for  ever. 

He  had  been  apprised  that  the  final  hour  was  Three,  and 
he  knew  he  would  be  summoned  some  time  earlier,  in- 
asmuch as  the  tumbrils  jolted  heavily  and  slowly  through 
the  streets.  Therefore,  he  resolved  to  keep  Two  before 
his  mind,  as  the  hour,  and  so  to  strengthen  himself  in  the 
interval  that  he  might  be  able,  after  that  time,  to  strengthen 
others. 

Vfalking  regularly  to  and  fro  with  his  arms  folded  oi\ 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


833 


his  breast,  a very  different  man  from  the  prisoner,  who 
had  walked  to  and  fro  at  La  Force,  he  heard  One  struck 
away  from  him,  without  surprise.  The  hour  had  measured 
like  most  other  hours.  Devoutly  thankful  to  Heaven  for 
his  recovered  self-possession,  he  thought,  There  is  but 
another  now,”  and  turned  to  walk  again. 

Footsteps  in  the  stone  passage  outside  the  door.  He 
stopped. 

The  key  was  put  in  the  lock,  and  turned.  Before  the 
door  was  opened,  or  as  it  opened,  a man  said  in  a low  voice, 
in  English:  ^^He  has  never  seen  me  here;  I have  kept  out 
of  his  way.  Go  you  in  alone;  I wait  near.  Lose  no 
time ! ” 

The  door  was  quickly  opened  and  closed,  and  there  stood 
before  him  face  to  face,  quiet,  intent  upon  him,  with  the 
light  of  a smile  on  his  features,  and  a cautionary  finger  on 
his  lip,  Sydney  Carton. 

There  was  something  so  bright  and  remarkable  in  his 
look,  that,  for  the  first  moment,  the  prisoner  misdoubted 
him  to  be  an  apparition  of  his  own  imagining.  But,  he 
spoke,  and  it  was  his  voice;  he  took  the  prisoner’s  hand, 
and  it  was  his  real  grasp. 

Of  all  the  people  upon  earth,  you  least  expected  to  see 
me?  ” he  said. 

‘‘  I could  not  believe  it  to  be  you.  I can  scarcely  believe 
it  now.  You  are  not” — the  apprehension  came  suddenly 
into  his  mind — a prisoner? 

‘‘Ho.  I am  accidentally  possessed  of  a power  over  one 
of  the  keepers  here,  and  in  virtue  of  it  I stand  before  you. 

I come  from  her — your  wife,  dear  Darnay.” 

The  prisoner  wrung  his  hand. 

“ I bring  you  a request  from  her.  ” 

“ What  is  it?  ” 

“A  most  earnest,  pressing,  and  emphatic  entreaty,  ad- 
dressed to  you  in  the  most  pathetic  tones  of  the  voice  so 
dear  to  you,  that  you  well  remember.” 

The  prisoner  turned  his  face  partly  aside. 

“ You  have  no  time  to  ask  me  why  I bring  it,  or  what 
it  means;  I have  no  time  to  tell  you.  You  must  comply 
with  it — take  off  those  boots  you  wear,  and  draw  on  these 
of  mine.” 

There  was  a chair  against  the  wall  of  the  cell,  behind 
the  prisoner.  Carton,  pressing  forward,  had  already,  with 


334 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


the  speed  of  lightning,  got  him  down  into  it,  and  stood 
over  him,  barefoot. 

‘^Draw  on  these  boots  of  mine.  Put  your  hands  to 
them;  put  your  will  to  them.  Quick!  ” 

‘‘Carton,  there  is  no  escaping  from  this  place;  it  never 
can  be  done.  You  will  only  die  with  me.  It  is  mad- 
ness.’^ 

“It  would  be  madness  if  I asked  you  to  escape;  but  do 
I?  When  I ask  you  to  pass  out  at  that  door,  tell  me  it  is 
madness  and  remain  here.  Change  that  cravat  for  this  of 
mine,  that  coat  for  this  of  mine.  While  you  do  it,  let  me 
take  this  ribbon  from  your  hair,  and  shake  out  your  hair 
like  this  of  mine ! 

With  wonderful  quickness,  and  with  a strength  both  of 
will  and  action,  that  appeared  quite  supernatural,  he  forced 
all  these  changes  upon  him.  The  prisoner  was  like  a young 
child  in  his  hands. 

“Carton!  Dear  Carton!  It  is  madness.  It  cannot  be 
accomplished,  it  never  can  be  done,  it  has  been  attempted, 
and  has  always  failed.  I implore  you  not  to  add  your 
death  to  the  bitterness  of  mine.” 

“Do  I ask  you,  my  dear  Darnay,  to  pass  the  door? 
When  I ask  that,  refuse.  There  are  pen  and  ink  and  paper 
on  this  table.  Is  your  hand  steady  enough  to  write?  ” 

“ It  was  when  you  came  in.” 

“ Steady  it  again,  and  write  what  I shall  dictate.  Quick, 
friend,  quick ! ” 

Pressing  his  hand  to  his  bewildered  head,  Darnay  sat 
down  at  the  table.  Carton,  with  his  right  hand  in  his 
breast,  stood  close  beside  him. 

“Write  exactly  as  I speak.” 

“ To  whom  do  I address  it?  ” 

“ To  no  one.”  Carton  still  had  his  hand  in  his  breast.” 
“ Do  I date  it?  ” 

“No. 

The  prisoner  looked  up,  at  each  question.  Carton, 
standing  over  him  with  his  hand  in  his  breast,  looked 
down. 

“‘If  you  remember,’”  said  Carton,  dictating,  “‘the 
words  that  passed  between  us,  long  ago,  you  will  readily 
comprehend  this  when  you  see  it.  You  do  remember  them, 
I know.  It  is  iiot  in  your  nature  to  forget  them.’  ” 

He  was  drawing  his  hand  from  his  breast;  the  prisoner 


WRITE  EXACTLY  AS  I SPEAK. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


335 


chancing  to  look  up  in  his  hurried  wonder  as  he  wrote,  the 
hand  stopped,  closing  upon  something. 

Have  you  written  ' forget  them  ” Carton  asked. 

I have.  Is  that  a weapon  in  your  hand? 

^‘No;  I am  not  armed.’’ 

What  is  it  in  your  hand?  ” 

^‘You  shall  know  directly.  Write  on;  there  are  but  a 
few  words  more.”  He  dictated  again.  ' I am  thankful 
that  the  time  has  come,  when  I can  prove  them.  That  I 
do  so  is  no  subject  for  regret  or  grief.’  ” As  he  said  these 
words  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  writer,  his  hand  slowly 
and  softly  moved  down  close  to  the  writer’s  face. 

The  pen  dropped  from  Darnay’s  fingers  on  the  table,  and 
he  looked  about  him  vacantly. 

What  vapojir  is  that?  ” he  asked. 

Vapour?  ” 

Something  that  crossed  me?  ” 

“I  am  conscious  of  nothing;  there  can  be  nothing  here. 
Take  up  the  pen  and  finish.  Hurry,  hurry ! ” 

As  if  his  memory  were  impaired,  or  his  faculties  disor- 
dered, the  prisoner  made  an  effort  to  rally  his  attention. 
As  he  looked  at  Carton  with  clouded  eyes  and  with  an  al- 
tered manner  of  breathing.  Carton — his  hand  again  in  his 
breast — looked  steadily  at  him. 

Hurry,  hurry ! ” 

The  prisoner  bent  over  the  paper,  once  more. 

‘ If  it  had  been  otherwise;  ’ ” Carton’s  hand  was  again 
watchfully  and  softly  stealing  down;  “ ' I never  should 
have  used  the  longer  opportunity.  If  it  had  been  other- 
wise; ’ ” the  hand  was  at  the  prisoner’s  face;  ^ I should 

but  have  had  so  much  the  more  to  answer  for.  If  it  had 

been  otherwise ” Carton  looked  at  the  pen  and  saw 

it  was  trailing  off  into  unintelligible  signs. 

Carton’s  hand  moved  back  to  his  breast  no  more.  Tlie 
prisoner  sprang  up  with  a reproachful  look,  but  Carton’s 
hand  was  close  and  firm  at  his  nostrils,  and  Carton’s  left 
arm  caught  him  round  the  waist.  For  a few  seconds  he 
faintly  struggled  with  the  man  who  had  come  to  lay  down 
his  life  for  him;  but,  within  a minute  or  so,  he  was 
stretched  insensible  on  the  ground. 

Quickly,  but  with  hands  as  true  to  the  purpose  as  his 
heart  was.  Carton  dressed  himself  in  the  clothes  the  pris- 
oner had  laid  aside,  combed  back  his  hair,  and  tied  it  with 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


336 

the  ribbon  the  prisoner  had  worn.  Then,  he  softly  called, 
“ Enter  there ! Come  in ! ” and  the  Spy  presented  himself. 

“ You  see?  ” said  Carton,  looking  up,  as  he  kneeled  on 
one  knee  beside  the  insensible  figure,  putting  the  paper  in 
the  breast : “ is  your  hazard  very  great?  ” 

“Mr.  Carton,”  the  Spy  answered,  with  a timid  snap 
of  his  fingers,  “my  hazard  is  not  tkaf,  in  the  thick  of 
business  here,  if  you  are  true  to  the  whole  of  your  bar- 
gain.” 

“Don’t  fear  me.  I will  be  true  to  the  death.” 

“ You  must  be,  Mr.  Carton,  if  the  tale  of  fifty-two  is  to 
be  right.  Being  made  right  by  you  in  that  dress,  I shall 
have  no  fear.’^ 

Have  no  fear ! I shall  soon  be  out  of  the  way  of  harm- 
ing  you,  and  the  rest  will  soon  be  far  from  here,  please 
God ! Now,  get  assistance  and  take  me  to  "the  coach. 

You?  ’’  said  the  Spy  nervously. 

^^Him,  man,  with  whom  I have  exchanged.  You  go  out 
at  the  gate  by  which  you  brought  me  in? 

^^Of  course.’^ 

I was  weak  and  faint  when  you  brought  me  in,  and  I 
am  fainter  now  you  take  me  out.  The  parting  interview 
has  overpowered  me.  Such  a thing  has  happened  here, 
often,  and  too  often.  Your  life  is  in  your  own  hands. 
Quick ! Call  assistance ! ’’ 

''  You  swear  not  to  betray  me?  said  the  trembling  Spy, 
as  he  paused  for  a last  moment. 

''Man,  manH'  returned  Carton,  stamping  his  foot; 
" have  I sworn  by  no  solemn  vow  already,  to  go  through 
with  this,  that  you  waste  the  precious  moments  now?  Take 
him  yourself  to  the  courtyard  you  know  of,  place  him  your- 
self in  the  carriage,  show  him  yourself  to  Mr.  Lorry,  tell 
him  yourself  to  give  him  no  restorative  but  air,  and  to  re- 
member my  words  of  last  night,  and  his  promise  of  last 
night,  and  drive  away  ! ’’ 

The  Spy  withdrew,  and  Carton  seated  himself  at  the 
table,  resting  his  forehead  on  his  hands.  The  Spy  returned 
immediately,  with  two  men. 

"How,  then?”  said  one  of  them,  contemplating  the 
fallen  figure.  "So  afflicted  to  find  that  his  friend  has 
drawn  a prize  in  the  lottery  of  Sainte  Guillotine?  ” 

"A  good  patriot,”  said  the  other,  "could  hardly  have 
been  more  afflicted  if  the  Aristocrat  had  drawn  a blank.” 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


337 


They  raised  the  unconscious  figure,  placed  it  on  a litter 
they  had  brought  to  the  door,  and  bent  to  carry  it  away. 

“The  time  is  short,  Evremonde,”  said  the  Spy,  in  a 
warning  voice. 

“I  know  it  well,”  answered  Carton.  “Be  careful  of  my 
friend,  I entreat  you,  and  leave  me.” 

“Come,  then,  my  children,”  said  Barsad.  “Lift  him, 
and  come  away ! 

The  door  closed,  and  Carton  was  left  alone.  Straining 
his  powers  of  listening  to  the  utmost,  he  listened  for  any 
sound  that  might  denote  suspicion  or  alarm.  There  was 
none.  Keys  turned,  doors  clashed,  footsteps  passed  along 
distant  passages ; no  cry  was  raised,  or  hurry  made,  that 
seemed  unusual.  Breathing  more  freely  in  a little  while, 
he  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  listened  again  until  the  clock 
struck  Two. 

Sounds  that  he  was  not  afraid  of,  for  he  divined  their 
meaning,  then  began  to  be  audible.  Several  doors  were 
opened  in  succession,  and  finally  his  own.  A gaoler,  with 
a list  in  his  hand,  looked  in,  merely  saying,  “ Follow  me, 
Evremonde ! ” and  he  followed  into  a large  dark  room,  at  a 
distance.  It  was  a dark  winter  day,  and  what  with  the 
shadows  within,  and  what  with  the  shadows  without,  he 
could  but  dimly  discern  the  others  who  were  brought  there 
to  have  their  arms  bound.  Some  were  standing;  some 
seated.  Some  were  lamenting,  and  in  restless  motion;  but, 
these  were  few.  The  great  majority  were  silent  and  still, 
looking  fixedly  at  the  ground. 

As  he  stood  by  the  wall  in  a dim  corner,  while  some  of 
the  fifty-two  were  brought  in  after  him,  one  man  stopped 
in  passing,  to  embrace  him,  as  having  a knowledge  of  him. 

It  thrilled  him  with  a great  dread  of  discovery;  but  the 
man  went  on.  A very  few  moments  after  that,  a young 
woman,  with  a slight  girlish  form,  a sweet  spare  face  in 
which  there  was  no  vestige  of  colour,  and  large  widely 
Dpened  patient  eyes,  rose  from  the  seat  where  he  had  ob- 
served  her  sitting,  and  came  to  speak  to  him. 

''Citizen  Evremonde,'' she  said,  touching  him  with  her 
3old  hand.  am  a poor  little  seamstress,  who  was  with 
rou  in  La  Force." 

He  murmured  for  answer : “ True.  I forget  what  vou 
Jvere  accused  of? " o j 

Plots.  Though  the  just  Heaven  knows  that  I am  in- 

22 


338 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


nocent  of  any.  Is  it  likely?  Who  would  think  of  plotting 
with  a poor  little  weak  creature  like  me?  ” 

The  forlorn  smile  with  which  she  said  it,  so  touched 
him,  that  tears  started  from  his  eyes. 

I am  not  afraid  to  die.  Citizen  Evremonde,  but  I have 
done  nothing.  I am  not  unwilling  to  die,  if  the  Kepublic 
which  is  to  do  so  much  good  to  us  poor,  will  profit  by  my 
death;  but  I do  not  know  how  that  can  be.  Citizen  Evre- 
monde. Such  a poor  weak  little  creature ! ” 

As  the  last  thing  on  earth  that  his  heart  was  to  warm 
and  soften  to,  it  warmed  and  softened  to  this  pitiable 
girl. 

I heard  you  were  released.  Citizen  Evremonde.  I hoped 
it  was  true? 

It  was.  But,  I was  again  taken  and  condemned.’^ 

If  I may  ride  with  you.  Citizen  Evremonde,  will  you 
let  me  hold  your  hand?  I am  not  afraid,  but  I am  little 
and  weak,  and  it  will  give  me  more  courage.” 

As  the  patient  eyes  were  lifted  to  his  face,  he  saw  a sud- 
den doubt  in  them,  and  then  astonishment.  He  pressed 
the  work-worn,  hunger- worn  young  fingers,  and  touched 
his  lips. 

Are  you  dying  for  him?  ” she  whispered. 

And  his  wife  and  child.  Hush!  Yes.” 

‘^0  you  will  let  me  hold  your  brave  hand,  stranger?  ” 
^‘Hush!  Yes,  my  poor  sister;  to  the  last.” 

The  same  shadows  that  are  falling  on  the  prison,  are 
falling,  in  that  same  hour  of  the  early  afternoon,  on  the 
Barrier  with  the  crowd  about  it,  when  a coach  going  out  of 
Paris  drives  up  to  be  examined. 

Who  goes  here?  Whom  have  we  within?  Papers ! ” 
The  papers  are  handed  out,  and  read. 

Alexandre  Manette.  Physician.  French.  Which  is 
he?” 

This  is  he;  this  helpless,  inarticulately  murmuring,  wan- 
dering old  man  pointed  out. 

Apparently  the  Citizen-Doctor  is  not  in  his  right  mind? 
The  Kevolution-fever  will  have  been  too  much  for  him?  ” 
Greatly  too  much  for  him. 

Hah ! Many  suffer  with  it.  Lucie.  His  daughter. 
French.  Which  is  she?  ” 

This  is  she. 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


“ Apparently  it  must  be.  Lucie,  the  wife  of  Evremonde; 
is  it  not? 

It  is. 

Hah ! Evremonde  has  an  assignation  elsewhere.  Lucie, 
her  child.  English.  This  is  she?  '' 

She  and  no  other. 

^^Kiss  me,  child  of  Evr^nonde.  How,  thou  hast  kissed 
a good  Eepublican;  something  new  in  thy  family;  remem- 
ber it!  Sydney  Carton.  Advocate.  English.  Which  is 
he?^^ 

He  lies  here,  in  this  corner  of  the  carriage.  He,  too,  is 
pointed  out. 

‘^Apparently  the  English  advocate  is  in  a swoon?  ” 

It  is  hoped  he  will  recover  in  the  fresher  air.  It  is  rep- 
resented that  he  is  not  in  strong  health,  and  has  separated 
sadly  from  a friend  who  is  under  the  displeasure  of  the 
Eepublic. 

“Is  that  all?  It  is  not  a great  deal,  that!  Many  are 
under  the  displeasure  of  the  Eepublic,  and  must  look  out 
at  the  little  window.  Jarvis  Lorry.  Banker.  English. 
Which  is  he? 

“I  am  he.  Hecessaril}^,  being  the  last.” 

It  is  Jarvis  Lorry  who  has  replied  to  all  the  previous 
questions.  It  is  Jarvis  Lorry  who  has  alighted  and  stands 
with  his  hand  on  the  coach  door,  replying  to  a group  of 
officials.  They  leisurely  walk  round  the  carriage  and  leis- 
urely mount  the  box,  to  look  at  what  little  luggage  it  car- 
ries on  the  roof;  the  country-people  hanging  about,  press 
nearer  to  the  coach  doors  and  greedily  stare  in;  a little 
child,  carried  by  its  mother,  has  its  short  arm  held  out  for 
it,  that  it  may  touch  the  wife  of  an  aristocrat  who  has  gone 
to  the  Guillotine. 

“Behold  your  papers,  Jarvis  Lorry,  countersigned.” 

“One  can  depart,  citizen?  ” 

“One  can  depart.  Forward,  my  postilions!  A good 
journey ! ” 

“I  salute  you,  citizens. — And  the  first  danger  passed!  ” 

These  are  again  the  words  of  J arvis  Lorry,  as  he  clasps 
his  hands,  and  looks  upward.  There  is  terror  in  the  car- 
riage, there  is  weeping,  there  is  the  heavy  breathing  of  the 
insensible  traveller. 

“Are  we  not  going  too  slowly?  Can  they  not  be  induced 
to  go  faster?  ” asks  Lucie,  clinging  to  the  old  man. 


340 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


“ It  would  seem  like  flight,  my  darling.  I must  not  urge 
them  too  much;  it  would  rouse  suspicion.^’ 

Look  back,  look  back,  and  see  if  we  are  pursued ! 

The  road  is  clear,  my  dearest.  So  far,  we  are  not  pur- 
sued. 

Houses  in  twos  and  threes  pass  by  us,  solitary  farms, 
ruinous  buildings,  dye-works,  tanneries,  and  the  like,  open 
country,  avenues  of  leafless  trees.  The  hard  uneven  pave- 
ment is  under  us,  the  soft  deep  mud  is  on  either  side. 
Sometimes,  we  strike  into  the  skirting  mud,  to  avoid  the 
stones  that  clatter  us  and  shake  us;  sometimes,  we  stick  in 
ruts  and  sloughs  there.  The  agony  of  our  impatience  is  then 
so  great,  that  in  our  wild  alarm  and  hurry  we  are  for  getting 
out  and  running — hiding — doing  anything  but  stopping. 

Out  of  the  open  country,  in  again  among  ruinous  build- 
ings, solitary  farms,*  dye-works,  tanneries,  and  the  like, 
cottages  in  twos  and  threes,  avenues  of  leafless  trees. 
Have  these  men  deceived  us,  and  taken  us  back  by  another 
road?  Is  not  this  the  same  place  twice  over?  Thank 
Heaven,  no.  A village.  Look  back,  look  back,  and  see  if 
we  are  pursued ! .Hush!  the  posting-house. 

Leisurely,  our  four  horses  are  taken  out;  leisurely,  the 
coach  stands  in  the  little  street,  bereft  of  horses,  and  with 
no  likelihood  upon  it  of  ever  moving  again;  leisurely,  the 
new  horses  come  into  visible  existence,  one  by  one;  leis- 
urely, the  new  postilions  follow,  sucking  and  plaiting  the 
lashes  of  their  whips;  leisurely,  the  old  postilions  count 
their  money,  make  wrong  additions,  and  arrive  at  dissatis- 
fied ^ results.  All  the  time,  our  overfraught  hearts  are 
beating  at  a rate  that  would  far  outstrip  the  fastest  gallop 
of  the  fastest  horses  ever  foaled. 

At  length  the  new  postilions  are  in  their  saddles,  and  the 
old  are  left  behind.  We  are  through  the  village,  up  the 
hill,  and  down  the  hill,  and  on  the  low  watery  grounds. 
Suddenly,  the  postilions  exchange  speech  with  animated 
gesticulation,  and  the  horses  are  pulled  up,  almost  on  their 
haunches.  We  are  pursued? 

Ho ! Within  the  carriage  there.  Speak  then ! 

What  is  it?  ’’  asks  Mr.  Lorry,  looking  out  at  window. 

‘^How  many  did  they  say?  ” 
do  not  understand  you.’^ 

— At  the  last  post.  How  many  to  the  Guillotine  to- 
day?’^ 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


341 


Fifty-two/^ 

I said  so!  A brave  number!  My  fellow-citizen  here 
would  have  it  forty-two;  ten  more  heads  are  worth  having. 
The  Guillotine  goes  handsomely.  I love  it.  Hi  forward. 
Whoop!'' 

The  night  comes  on  dark.  He  moves  more;  he  is  begin- 
ning to  revive,  and  to  speak  intelligibly;  he  thinks  they 
are  still  together;  he  asks  him,  by  his  name,  what  he  has 
in  his  hand.  0 pity  us,  kind  Heaven,  and  help  us ! Look 
out,  look  out,  and  see  if  we  are  pursued. 

The  wind  is  rushing  after  us,  and  the  clouds  are  flying 
after  us,  and  the  moon  is  plunging  after  us,  and  the  whole 
wild  night  is  in  pursuit  of  us;  but,  so  far,  we  are  pursued 
by  nothing  else. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

. THE  KNITTING  DONE. 

In  that  same  juncture  of  time  when  the  Fifty-Two 
awaited  their  fate  Madame  Defarge  held  darkly  ominous 
council  with  The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  of  the 
Revolutionary  Jury.  Not  in  the  wine-shop  did  Madame 
Defarge  confer  with  these  ministers,  but  in  the  shed  of  the 
wood-sawyer,  erst  a mender  of  roads.  The  sawyer  him- 
self did  not  participate  in  the  conference,  but  abided  at  a 
little  distance,  like  an  outer  satellite  who  was  not  to  speak 
until  required,  or  to  offer  an  opinion  until  invited. 

But  our  Defarge,"  said  Jacques  Three,  “is  undoubtedly 
a good  Republican?  Eh?  " 

“There  is  no  better,"  the  voluble  Vengeance  protested  in 
her  shrill  notes,  “in  France." 

“Peace,  little  Vengeance,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  laying 
tier  hand  with  a slight  frown  on  her  lieutenant's  lips, 
’‘hear  me  speak.  My  husband,  fellow-citizen,  is  a good 
Republican  and  a bold  man;  he  has  deserved  well  of  the 
Republic,  and  possesses  its  confidence.  But  my  husband 
!ias  his  weaknesses,  and  he  is  weak  as  to  relent  towards 
bhis  Doctor. " 

“It  is  a great  pity,"  croaked  Jacques  Three,  dubiously 
shaking  his  head,  with  his  cruel  fingers  at  his  hungry 


342 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


mouth;  ‘‘  it  is  not  quite  like  a good  citizen;  it  is  a thing  to 
regret.  ’’ 

' ^^See  you/’  said  madaine,  care  nothing  for  this  Doc- 
tor, I.  He  may  wear  his  head  or  lose  it,  for  any  interest  I 
have  in  him;  it  is  all  one  to  me.  But,  the  Evremonde 
people  are  to  be  exterminated,  and  the  wife  and  child  must 
follow  the  husband  and  father.” 

“ She  has  a fine  head  for  it,”  croaked  Jacques  Three. 
have  seen  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair  there,  and  they  looked 
charming  when  Samson  held  them  up.”  Ogre  that  he  was, 
he  spoke  like  an  epicure. 

Madame  Defarge  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  reflected  a little. 

‘^The  child  also,”  observed  Jacques  Three,  with  a medi- 
tative enjoyment  of  his  words,  ^^has  golden  hair  and  blue 
eyes.  And  we  seldom  have  a child  there.  It  is  a pretty 
sight ! ” 

‘Mn  a word,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  coming  out  of  her 
short  abstraction,  I cannot  trust  n^y  husband  in  this  mat- 
ter. Not  only  do  I feel,  since  last  night,  that  I dare  not 
confide  to  him  the  details  of  my  projects;  but  also  I feel 
that  if  I delay,  there  is  danger  of  his  giving  warning,  and 
then  they  might  escape.” 

^^That  must  never  be,”  croaked  Jacques  Three;  ^^no  one 
must  escape.  We  have  not  half  enough  as  it  is.  We 
ought  to  have  six  score  a day.” 

^Mn  a word,”  Madame  Defarge  went  on,  “my  husband 
has  not  my  reason  for  pursuing  this  family  to  annihilation, 
and  I have  not  his  reason  for  regarding  this  Doctor  with 
any  sensibility.  I must  act  for  myself,  therefore.  Come 
hither,  little  citizen.” 

The  wood-sawyer,  who  held  her  in  the  respect,  and  him- 
self in  the  submission,  of  mortal  fear,  advanced  with  his 
hand  to  his  red  cap. 

“Touching  those  signals,  little  citizen,”  said  Madame 
Defarge,  sternly,  “that  she  made  to  the  prisoners;  you  are 
ready  to  bear  witness  to  them  this  very  day?  ” 

“Ay,  ay,  why  not!  ” cried  the  sawyer.  “Every  day,  in 
all  weathers,  from  two  to  four,  always  signalling,  some- 
times with  the  little  one,  sometimes  without.  I know 
what  I know.  I have  seen  a ith  my  eyes.” 

He  made  all  manner  of  gejJures  while  he  spoke,  as  if  m 
incidental  imitation  of  some  few  of  the  great  diversity  of 
signals  that  he  had  never  seen. 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


343 


''  Clearly  plots/'  said  Jacques  Three.  ''  Transparently ! " 
‘‘There  is  no  doubt  of  the  Jury?  " inquired  Madame  De- 
farge,  letting  her  eyes  turn  to  him  with  a gloomy  smile. 

“Rely  upon  the  patriotic  Jury,  dear  citizeness.  I an- 
swer for  my  fellow- Jurymen." 

“^^ow,  let  me  see,"  said  Madame  Defarge,  pondering 
again.  “ Yet  once  more ! Can  I spare  this  Doctor  to  my 
husband?  I have  no  feeling  either  way.  Can  I spare 
him?"  ^ 

“He  would  count  as  one  head,"  observed  Jacques  Three, 
in  a low  voice.  . “ We  really  have  not  heads  enough;  it 
would  be  a pity,  I think." 

' “He  was  signalling  with  her  when  I saw  her,"  argued 
Madame  Defarge;  “I  cannot  speak  of  one  without  the 
other;  and  I must  not  be  silent,  and  trust  the  case  wholly 
,to  him,  this  little  citizen  here.  For,  I am  not  a bad  wit- 
ness." 

The  Vengeance  and  Jacques  Three  vied  with  each  other 
in  their  fervent  protestations  that  she  was  the  most  admir- 
iible  and  marvellous  of  witnesses.  The  little  citizen,  not 
GO  be  outdone,  declared  her  to  be  a celestial  witness. 

^ ‘ He  must  take  his  chance,"  said  Madame  Defarge. 
^No,  I cannot  spare  him ! You  are  engaged  at  three 
) clock;  you  are  going  to  see  the  batch  of  to-day  executed. 
-You? " 

The  question  was  addressed  to  the  wood-sawyer,  who 
lurriedly  replied  in  the  affirmative  : seizing  the  occasion  to 
idd  that  he  was  the  most  ardent  of  Republicans,  and  that 
le  would  be  in  effect  the  most  desolate  of  Republicans,  if 
inything  prevented  him  from  enjoying  the  pleasure  of 
moking  his  afternoon  pipe  in  the  contemplation  of  the  droll 
lational  barber.  He  was  so  very  demonstrative  herein, 
hat  he  might  have  been  suspected  (perhaps  was,  by  the 
Lark  eyes  that  looked  contemptuously  at  him  out  of  Madame 
efarge  s head)  of  having  his  small  individual  fears  for 
personal  safety,  every  hour  in  the  day. 

^‘I,"  said  madame,  “am  equally  engaged  at  the  same 
•lace.  After  it  is  over — say  at  eight  to-night — come  you 
0 me,  in  Saint  Antoine,  and  we  will  give  information 
gainst  these  people  at  my  Section." 

The  wood-sawyer  said  he  would  be  proud  and  flattered 
a attend  the  citizeness.  The  citizeness  Ic^oking  at  him,  he 
«came  embarrassed,  evaded  her  glancej  as  a small  dog 


344 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


would  have  done,  retreated  among  his  wood,  and  hid  his 
confusion  over  the  handle  of  his  saw. 

Madame  Defarge  beckoned  the  Juryman  and  The  Venge- 
ance a little  nearer  to  the  door,  and  there  expounded  her 
further  views  to  them  thus : 

“She  will  now  be  at  home,  awaiting  the  moment  of  his 
death.  She  will  be  mourning  and  grieving.  She  will  be 
in  a state  of  mind  to  impeach  the  justice  of  the  Eepublic. 
She  will  be  full  of  sympathy  with  its  enemies.  I will  go 
to  her.” 

“ What  an  admirable  woman ; what  an  adorable  woman ! ” 
exclaimed  Jacques  Three,  rapturously.  “Ah,  my  cher- 
ished!” cried  The  Vengeance;  and  embraced  her. 

“Take  you  my  knitting,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  placing 
it  in  her  lieutenant’s  hands,  “and  have  it  ready  for  me  in 
my  usual  seat.  Keep  me  my  usual  chair.  Go  you  there, 
straight,  for  there  will  probably  be  a greater  concourse 
than  usual,  to-day.” 

“I  willingly  obey  the  orders  of  my  Chief,”  said  The 
Vengeance  with  alacrity,  and  kissing  her  cheek.  “You 
will  not  be  late?  ” 

“I  shall  be  there  before  the  commencement.” 

“ And  before  the  tumbrils  arrive.  Be  sure  you  are  there, 
my  soul,”  said  The  Vengeance,  calling  after  her,  for  she 
had  already  turned  into  the  street,  “ before  the  tumbrils 
arrive ! ” 

Madame  Defarge  slightly  waved  her  hand,  to  imply  that 
she  heard,  and  might  be  relied  upon  to  arrive  in  good  time, 
and  so  went  through  the  mud,  and  round  the  corner  of  the 
prison  wall.  The  Vengeance  and  the  Juryman,  looking 
after  her  as  she  walked  away,  were  highly  appreciative  of 
her  fine  figure,  and  her  superb  moral  endowments. 

There  were  many  women  at  that  time,  upon  whom  the 
time  laid  a dreadfully  disfiguring  hand;  but,  there  was  not 
one  among  them  more  to  be  dreaded  than  this  ruthless 
woman,  now  taking  her  way  along  the  streets.  Of  a strong 
and  fearless  character,  of  shrewd  sense  and  readiness,  of 
great  determination,  of  that  kind  of  beauty  which  not  only 
seems  to  impart  to  its  possessor  firmness  and  animosity, 
but  to  strike  into  others  an  instinctive  recognition  of  those 
qualities;  the  troubled  time  would  have  lieaved  her  up,  un- 
der any  circumstances.  But,  imbued  from  her  childhood 
with  a brooding  sense  of  wrong,  and  an  inveterate  hatred  of 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


345 


a class,  opportunity  had  developed  her  into  a tigress.  She 
was  absolutely  without  pity.  If  she  had  ever  had  the  vir- 
tue in  her,  it  had  quite  gone  out  of  her. 

It  was  nothing  to  her,  that  an  innocent  man  was  to  die 
for  the  sins  of  his  forefathers;  she  saw,  not  him,  but  them. 
It  was  nothing  to  her,  that  his  wife  was  to  be  made  a 
widow  and  his  daughter  an  orphan;  that  was  insufficient 
pimishment,  because  they  were  her  natural  enemies  and 
her  prey,  and  as  such  had  no  right  to  live.  To  appeal  to 
her,  was  made  hopeless  by  her  having  no  sense  of  pity 
even  for  herself.  If  she  had  been  laid  low  in  the  streets, 
in  any  of  the  many  encounters  in  which  s'le  had  been  en- 
gaged, she  would  not  have  pitied  herself;  nor,  if  she  had 
been  ordered  to  the  axe  to-morrow,  would  she  have  gone 
to  it  with  any  softer  feeling  than  a fierce  desire  to  change 
places  with  the  man  who  sent  her  there. 

Such  a heart  Madame  Defarge  carried  under  her  rough 
robe.  Carelessly  worn,  it  was  a becoming  robe  enough,  in 
a certain  weird  way,  and  her  dark  hair  looked  rich  under 
her  coarse  red  cap.  Lying  hidden  in  her  bosom,  was  a 
loaded  pistol.  Lying  hidden  at  her  waist,  was  a sharpened 
dagger.  Thus  accoutred,  and  walking  with  the  confident 
tread  of  such  a character,  and  with  the  supple  freedom 
of  a woman  who  had  habitually  walked  in  her  girlhood, 
bare-foot  and  bare-legged,  on  the  brown  sea-sand,  Madame 
Uefarge  took  her  way  along  the  streets. 

Now,  when  the  journey  of  the  travelling  coach,  at  that 
very  moment  waiting  for  the  completion  of  its  load,  had 
been  planned  out  last  night,  the  difficulty  of  taking  Miss 
Pross  in  it  had  much  engaged  Mr.  Lorry’s  attention.  It 
was  not  merely  desirable  to  avoid  overloading  the  coach, 
but  It  was  of  the  highest  importance  that  the  time  occupied 
in  examining  it  and  its  passengers,  should  be  reduced  to 
the  utmost;  since  their  escape  might  depend  on  the  saving 
of  only  a few  seconds  here  and  there.  Finally,  he  had 
proposed,  after  anxious  consideration,  that  Miss  Pross  and 
Jerry,  who  were  at  liberty  to  leave  the  city,  should  leave 
1 at  three  o clock  in  the  lightest-wheeled  conveyance 
known  to  that  period.  Unencumbered  with  luggage,  they 
would  soon  overtake  the  coach,  and,  passing  it  and  preced- 
ing It  on  the  road,  would  order  its  horses  in  advance,  and 
greatly  facilitate  its  progress  during  the  precious  hours  of 
the  night,  when  delay  was  the  most  to  be  dreaded. 


34G 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


Seeing  in  this  arrangement  the  hope  of  rendering  real 
service  in  that  pressing  emergency,  Miss  Pross  hailed  it 
with  joy.  She  and  Jerry  had  beheld  the  coach  start,  had 
known  who  it  was  that  Solomon  brought,  had  passed  some 
ten  minutes  in  tortures  of  suspense,  and  were  now  conclud- 
ing their  arrangements  to  follow  the  coach,  even  as  Mad- 
ame Defarge,  taking  her  way  through  the  streets,  now 
drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  else-deserted  lodging  in 
which  they  held  their  consultation. 

^^Now  what  do  you  think,  Mr.  Cruncher,’^  said  Miss 
Pross,  whose  agitation  was  so  great  that  she  could  hardly 
speak,  or  stand,  or  move,  or  live;  ^^what  do  you  think  of 
our  not  starting  from  this  courtyard?  Another  carriage 
having  already  gone  from  here  to-day,  it  might  awaken 
suspicion.’^ 

^^My  opinion,  miss,’’  returned  Mr.  Cruncher,  “is  as 
you’re  right.  Likewise  wot  I’ll  stand  by  you,  right  or 
wrong.” 

“ I am  so  distracted  with  fear  and  hope  for  our  precious 
creatures,”  said  Miss  Pross,  wildly  crying,  “that  I am  in- 
capable of  forming  any  plan.  Are  you  capable  of  forming 
any  plan,  my  dear  good  Mr.  Cruncher?  ” 

“Eespectin’  a future  spear  o’  life,  miss,”  returned  Mr. 
Cruncher,  “ I hope  so.  Eespectin’  any  present  use  o’  this 
here  blessed  old  head  o’  mine,  I think  not.  Would  you  do 
me  the  favour,  miss,  to  take  notice  o’  two  promises  and 
wows  wot  it  is  my  wishes  fur  to  record  in  this  here  crisis?  ” 

“ Oh,  for  gracious  sake ! ” cried  Miss  Pross,  still  wildly 
crying,  “ record  them  at  once,  and  get  them  out  of  the  way, 
like  an  excellent  man.” 

“First,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  who  was  all  in  a tremble, 
and  who  spoke  with  an  ashy  and  solemn  visage,  “them 
poor  things  well  out  o’  this,  never  no  more  will  I do  it, 
never  no  more ! ” 

“I  am  quite  sure,  Mr.  Cruncher,”  returned  Miss  Pross, 
“ that  you  never  will  do  it  again,  whatever  it  is,  and  I beg 
you  not  to  think  it  necessary  to  mention  more  particularly 
what  it  is.” 

“No,  miss,”  returned  Jerry,  “it  shall  not  be  named  to 
you.  Second  : them  poor  things  well  out  o’  this,  and  never 
no  more  will  I interfere  with  Mrs.  Cruncher’s  flopping, 
never  no  more ! ” 

“ Whatever  housekeeping  arrangement  that  may  be,”  said 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


s47 

Miss  Pross,  striving  to  dry  her  eyes  and  compose  herself, 
“ I have  no  doubt  it  is  best  that  Mrs.  Cruncher  should  have 
it  entirely  under  her  own  superintendence. — 0 my  poor 
darlings ! ” 

“I  go  so  far  as  to  say,  miss,  moreover,”  proceeded  Mr. 
Cruncher,  with  a most  alarming  tendency  to  hold  forth  as 
from  a pulpit — “and  let  my  words  be  took  down  and  took 
to  Mrs.  Cruncher  through  yourself — that  wot  my  opinions 
respectin’  flopping  has  undergone  a change,  and  that  wot 
I only  hope  with  all  my  heart  as  Mrs.  Cruncher  may  be  a 
flopping  at  the  present  time.” 

There,  there,  there!  I hope  she  is,  my  dear  man,” 
cried  the  distracted  Miss  Pross,  “and  I hope  she  finds  it 
answering  her  expectations.” 

“Forbid  it,”  procedeed  Mr.  Cruncher,  with  additional 
solemnity,  additional  slowness,  and  additional  tendency  to 
hold  forth  and  hold  out,  as  anything  wot  I have  ever  said 
or  done  should  be  wisited  on  my  earnest  wishes  for  them 
poor  creeturs  now!  Forbid  it  as  we  shouldn’t  all  flop  (if 
It  was  anyways  conwenient)  to  get  ’em  out  o’  this  here  dis- 
mal risk!  Forbid  it,  miss!  Wot  I say,  for — bid  it!” 
This  was  Mr.  Cruncher’s  conclusion  after  a protracted  but 
vain  endeavour  to  find  a better  one. 

And  still  Madame  Defarge,  pursuing  her  way  along  the 
streets,  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

‘‘If  we  ever  get  back  to  our  native  land,”  said  Miss 
Pioss,  “you  may  rely  upon  my  telling  Mrs.  Cruncher  as 
much  as  I may  be  able  to  remember  and  understand  of 
what  you  have  so  impressively  said;  and  at  all  events  you 
may  be  sure  that  I shall  bear  witness  to  your  being  thor- 
oughly  in  earnest  at  this  dreadful  time.  Now,  pray  let  us 
think ! My  esteemed  Mr.  Cruncher,  let  us  think  ! ” 

Still,  Madame  Defarge,  pursuing  her  way  along  the 
streets,  came  nearer  and  nearer. 

were  to  go  before,”  said  Miss  Pross,  “and  stop 
the  vehicle  and  horses  from  coming  here,  and  were  to  wait 
somewhere  for  me;  wouldn’t  that  be  best?  ” 

Mr.  Cruncher  thought  it  might  be  best. 

“ Where  could  you  wait  for  me?  ” asked  Miss  Pross. 

Mr.  Cruncher  was  so  bewildered  that  he  could  think  of 
no  locality  but  Temple  Bar.  Alas ! Temple  Bar  was  hun- 
dreds of  miles  away,  and  Madame  Defarge  was  drawing 
very  near  indeed. 


348 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


the  cathedral  door/^  said  Miss  Press.  Would  it 
be  much  out  of  the  way,  to  take  me  in,  near  the  great 
cathedral  door  between  the  two  towers?  ” 

‘^No,  miss,’’  answered  Mr.  Cruncher. 

Then,  like  the  best  of  men,  ” said  Miss  Press,  go  to 
the  posting-house  straight,  and  make  that  change.” 

^‘1  am  doubtful,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  hesitating  and 
shaking  his  head,  about  leaving  of  you,  you  see.  We 
don’t  know  what  may  happen.” 

Heaven  knows  we  don’t,”  returned  Miss  Press,  ‘^but 
have  no  fear  for  me.  Take  me  at  the  cathedral,  at  Three 
o’clock,  or  as  near  it  as  you  can,  and  I am  sure  it  will  be 
better  than  our  going  from  here.  I feel  certain  of  it. 
There ! Bless  you,  Mr.  Cruncher ! Think — not  of  me,  but 
of  the  lives  that  may  depend  on  both  of  us ! ” 

This  exordium,  and  Miss  Pross’s  two  hands  in  quite 
agonised  entreaty  clasping  his,  decided  Mr.  Cruncher. 
With  an  encouraging  nod  or  two,  he  immediately  went  out 
to  alter  the  arrangements,  and  left  her  by  herself  to  follow 
as  she  had  proposed. 

The  having  originated  a precaution  which  was  already  in 
course  of  execution,  was  a great  relief  to  Miss  Pross.  The 
necessity  of  composing  her  appearance  so  that  it  should  at- 
tract no  special  notice  in  the  streets,  was  another  relief. 
She  looked  at  her  watch,  and  it  was  twenty  minutes  past 
two.  She  had  no  time  to  lose,  but  must  get  ready  at  once. 

Afraid,  in  her  extreme  perturbation,  of  the  loneliness 
of  the  deserted  rooms,  and  of  half-imagined  faces  peeping 
from  behind  every  open  door  in  them.  Miss  Pross  got  a 
basin  of  cold  water  and  began  laving  her  eyes,  which  were 
swollen  and  red.  Haunted  by  her  feverish  apprehensions, 
she  could  not  bear  to  have  her  sight  obscured  for  a minute 
at  a time  by  the  dripping  water,  but  constantly  paused  and 
looked  round  to  see  that  there  was  no  one  watching  her. 
In  one  of  those  pauses  she  recoiled  and  cried  out,  for  she 
saw  a figure  standing  in  the  room. 

The  basin  fell  to  the  ground  broken,  and  the  water  flowed 
to  the  feet  of  Madame  Defarge.  By  strange  stern  ways, 
and  through  much  staining  blood,  those  feet  had  come  to 
meet  that  water. 

Madame  Defarge  looked  coldly  at  her,  and  said,  ^^The 
wife  of  Evremonde;  where  is  she?  ” 

It  flashed  upon  Miss  Pross’s  mind  that  the  doors  were 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


349 


sn  standing  open,  and  would  suggest  the  flight.  Her  first 
act  was  to  shut  them.  There  were  four  in  the  room,  and 
she  shut  them  all.  She  then  placed  herself  before  the  door 
of  the  chamber  which  Lucie  had  occupied. 

Madame  Defarge^s  dark  eyes  followed  her  through  this 
rapid  movement,  and  rested  on  her  when  it  was  finished. 
Miss  Pross  had  nothing  beautiful  about  her;  years  had  not 
tamed  the  wildness,  or  softened  the  grimness,  of  her  ap- 
pearance; but,  she  too  was  a determined  woman  in  her  dif- 
ferent way,  and  she  measured  Madame  Defarge  with  her 
eyes,  every  inch. 

''  You  might,  from  your  appearance,  be  the  wife  of  Luci- 
^iss  Pross,  in  her  breathing.  Nevertheless,  you 
shall  not  get  the  better  of  me.  I am  an  Englishwoman.^^ 
Madame  Defarge  looked  at  her  scornfully,  but  still  with 
something  of  Miss  Pross’s  own  perception  that  they  two 
were  at  ba3^  She  saw  a tight,  hard,  wiry  woman  before 
ei,  as  Mr.  Lorry  liad  seen  in  the  same  figure  a woman 
with  a strong  hand,  in  the  years  gone  by.  She  knew  full 
well  that  Miss  Pross  was  the  family’s  devoted  friend;  Miss 
Pross  knew  full  well  that  Madame  Defarge  was  the  family’s 
malevolent  enemy. 

“On  my  way  yonder,”  said  Madame  Defarge,  with  a 
slight  movement  of  her  hand  towards  the  fatal  spot, 
where  they  reserve  my  chair  and  my  knitting  for  me,  I 
am  come  to  make  my  compliments  to  her  in  passing.  I 
wish  to  see  her.” 

“I  know  that  your  intentions  are  evil,”  said  Miss  Pross, 

depend  upon  it.  I’ll  hold  my  own  against 
them.”  ^ 


Each  spoke  in  her  own  language;  neither  understood  the 
Dther  s words;  both  were  very  watchful,  and  intent  to  de- 
luce  from  look  and  manner,  what  the  unintelligible  words 
meant. 

It  will  do  her  no  good  to  keep  her&elf  concealed  from  me 
it  this  moment,”  said  Madame  Defarge.  ^‘  Good  patriots 
tvill  know  what  that  means.  Let  me  see  her.  Go  tell  her 
mat  I wish  to  see  her.  Do  you  hear?  ” 

-tf  those  eyes  of  yours  were  bed- winches,”  returned 
mss  Pross,  "and  I was  an  English  four-poster,  they 
ouldn  t loose  a splinter  of  me.  No,  you  wicked  foreign 
voman;  I am  your  match.” 

Madame  Defarge  was  not  likely  to  follow  these  idiomatic 


350 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


remarks  in  detail;  but,  she  so  far  understood  them  as'  s-j- 
perceive  that  she  was  set  at  naught. 

Woman  imbecile  and  pig-like ! ” said  Madame  Defarge, 
frowning.  I take  no  answer  from  you.  I demand  to  see 
her.  Either  tell  her  that  I demand  to  see  her,  or  stand  out 
of  the  way  of  the  door  and  let  me  go  to  her ! ” This,  with 
an  angry  explanatory  wave  of  her  right  arm. 

‘‘I  little  thought,”  said  Miss  Pross,  ^Hhat  I should  ever 
want  to  understand  your  nonsensical  language;  but  I would 
give  all  I have,  except  the  clothes  I wear,  to  know  whether 
you  suspect  the  truth,  or  any  part  of  it.” 

Neither  of  them  for  a single  moment  released  the  other’s 
eyes.  Madame  Defarge  had  not  moved  from  the  spot 
where  she  stood  when  Miss  Pross  first  became  aware  of 
her;  but,  she  now  advanced  one  step. 

am  a Briton,”  said  Miss  Pross,  ‘‘I  am  desperate.  I 
don’t  care  an  English  Twopence  for  myself.  I know  that 
the  longer  I keep  you  here,  the  greater  hope  there  is  for 
my  Ladybird.  I’ll  not  leave  a handful  of  that  dark  hair 
upon  your  head,  if  you  lay  a finger  on  me ! ” 

Thus  Miss  Pross,  with  a shake  of  her  head  and  a flash 
of  her  eyes  between  every  rapid  sentence,  and  every  rapid 
sentence  a whole  breath.  Thus  Miss  Pross,  who  had  never 
struck  a blow  in  her  life. 

But,  her  courage  was  of  that  emotional  nature  that  it 
brought  the  irrepressible  tears  into  her  eyes.  This  was  a 
courage  that  Madame  Defarge  so  little  comprehended  as 
to  mistake  for  weakness.  ^^Ha,  ha!”  she  laughed,  ^‘you 
poor  wretch  1 What  are  you  worth  I I address  myself  to 
that  Doctor.”  Then  she  raised  her  voice  and  called  out, 
‘^Citizen  Doctor!  Wife  of  Evremonde!  Child  of  Evre- 
monde ! Any  person  but  this  miserable  fool,  answer  the 
Citizeness  Defarge ! ” 

Perhaps  the  following  silence,  perhaps  some  latent  dis- 
closure in  the  expression  of  Miss  Pross ’s  face,  perhaps  a 
sudden  misgiving  apart  from  either  suggestion,  whispered 
to  Madame  Defarge  that  they  were  gone.  Three  of  the 
doors  she  opened  swiftly,  and  looked  in. 

Those  rooms  are  all  in  disorder,  there  has  been  hurried 
packing,  there  are  odds  and  ends  upon  the  ground.  There 
is  no  one  in  that  room  behind  you!  Let  me  look.” 

Never!”  said  Miss  Pross,  who  uiidei’stood  the  request 
as  perfectly  as  Madame  Defarge  understood  the  answer. 


AND  STOOD  ALONE BLINDED  WITH  SMOKE.' 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


351 


If  they  are  not  in  that  room,  they  are  gone,  and  can  be 
pursued  and  brought  back,^^  said  Madame  Defarge  to  her- 
self. 

‘^As  long  as  you  don’t  know  whether  they  are  in  that 
room  or  not,  you  are  uncertain  what  to  do,”  said  Miss 
Pross  to  herself;  ''and  you  shall  not  know  that,  if  I can 
prevent  your  knowing  it;  and  know  that,  or  not  know  that, 
you  shall  not  leave  here  while  I can  hold  you.” 

I have  been  in  the  streets  from  the  first,  nothing  has 
stopped  me,  I will  tear  you  to  pieces,  but  I will  have  you 
from  that  door,”  said  Madame  Defarge. 

" We  are  alone  at  the  top  of  a high  house  in  a solitary 
courtyard,  we  are  not  likely  to  be  heard,  and  I pray  for 
bodily  strength  to  keep  you  here,  while  every  minute  you 
are  here  is  worth  a hundred  thousand  guineas  to  my  dar- 
ling,” said  Miss  Pross. 

Madame  Defarge  made  at  the  door.  Miss  Pross,  on  the 
instinct  of  the  moment,  seized  her  round  the  waist  in  both 
her  arms,  and  held  her  tight.  It  was  in  vain  for  Madame 
Defarge  to  struggle  and  to  strike;  Miss  Pross,  with  the 
vigorous  tenacity  of  love,  always  so  much  stronger  than 
hate,  clasped  her  tight,  and  even  lifted  her  from  the  floor 
in  the  struggle  that  they  had.  The  two  hands  of  Madame 
Defaige  buffeted  and  tore  her  face;  but  Miss  Pross,  with 
her  head  down,  held  her  round  the  waist,  and  clung  to  her 
with  more  than  the  hold  of  a drowning  woman. 

Soon,  Madame  Defarge’s  hands  ceased  to  strike,  and  felt 
^ her  encircled  waist.  "It  is  under  my  arm,”  said  Miss 
Pross,  in  smothered  tones,  "you  shall  not  draw  it.  I am 
stronger  than  you,  I bless  Heaven  for  it.  I hold  you  till 
me  or  other  of  us  faints  or  dies ! ” 

Madame  Defarge’s  hands  were  at  her  bosom.  Miss 
dross  looked  up,  saw  what  it  was,  struck  at  it,  struck  out 
I hash  and  a crash,  and  stood  alone — blinded  with  smoke. 

All  this  was  in  a second.  As  the  smoke  cleared,  leaving 
m awful  stillness,  it  passed  out  on  the  air,  like  the  soul  of 
he  furious  woman  whose  body  lay  lifeless  on  the  ground. 

In  the  first  fright  and  horror  of  her  situation.  Miss  Pross 
lassed  the  body  as  far  from  it  as  she  could,  and  ran  down 
he  stairs  to  call  for  fruitless  help.  Happily,  she  be- 
tiought  herself  of  the  consequences  of  what  she  did,  in 
tme  to  check  herself  and  go  back.  It  was  dreadful  to  go 
1 at  the  door  again;  but,  she  did  go  in,  and  even  went 


352 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


near  it,  to  get  the  bonnet  and  other  things  that  she  must 
wear.  These  she  put  on,  out  on  the  staircase,  first  shutting 
and  locking  the  door  and  taking  away  the  key.  She  then 
sat  down  on  the  stairs  a few  moments  to  breathe  and  to 
cry,  and  then  got  up  and  hurried  away. 

By  good  fortune  she  had  a veil  on  her  bonnet,  or  she 
could  hardly  have  gone  along  the  streets  without  being 
stopped.  By  good  fortune,  too,  she  was  naturally  so  pe- 
culiar in  appearance  as  not  to  show  disfigurement  like  any 
other  woman.  She  needed  both  advantages,  for  the  marks 
of  griping  fingers  were  deep  in  her  face,  and  her  hair  was 
torn,  and  her  dress  (hastily  composed  with  unsteady  hands) 
was  clutched  and  dragged  a hundred  ways. 

In  crossing  the  bridge,  she  dropped  the  door  key  in  the 
river.  Arriving  at  the  cathedral  some  few  minutes  before 
her  escort,  and  waiting  there,  she  thought,  what  if  the  ke}" 
were  already  taken  in  a net,  what  if  it  were  identified,  what 
if  the  door  were  opened  and  the  remains  discovered,  what 
if  she  were  stopped  at  the  gate,  sent  to  prison,  and  charged 
with  murder!  In  the  midst  of  these  fluttering  thoughts, 
the  escort  appeared,  took  her  in,  and  took  her  away. 

^^Is  there  any  noise  in  the  streets?  ’’  she  asked  him. 

^^The  usual  noises,’^  Mr.  Cruncher  replied;  and  looked 
surprised  by  the  question  and  by  her  aspect. 

“ I don’t  hear  you,”  said  Miss  Pross.  What  do  you  say?  ” 

It  was  in  vain  for  Mr.  Cruncher  to  repeat  what  he  said; 
Miss  Pross  could  not  hear  him.  So  I’ll  nod  my  head,” 
thought  Mr.  Cruncher,  amazed,  ^‘at  all  events  she’ll  see 
that.”  And  she  did. 

Is  there  any  noise  in  the  streets  now?  ” asked  Miss 
Pross  again,  presently. 

Again  Mr.  Cruncher  nodded  his  head. 

“ I don’t  hear  it.” 

Gone  deaf  in  an  hour?  ” said  Mr.  Cruncher,  ruminating,  | 
with  his  mind  much  disturbed;  wot’s  come  to  her?  ” 

feel,”  said  Miss  Pross,  ^^as  if  there  had  been  a flash 
and  a crash,  and  that  crash  was  the  last  thing  I should 
ever  hear  in  this  life.” 

“Blest  if  she  ain’t  in  a queer  condition!”  said  Mr. 
Cruncher,  more  and  more  disturbed.  “ Wot  can  she  have 
been  a takin’,  to  keep  her  courage  up?  Hark ! There’s  the 
roll  of  them  dreadful  carts!  You  can  hear  that,  miss?” 

“lean  hear,”  said  Miss  Pross,  seeing  that  he  spoke  to 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


353 


I her,  “nothing.  0,  my  good  man,  there  was  first  a great 
crash,  and  then  a great  stillness,  and  that  stillness  seems 
to  be  fixed  and  unchangeable,  never  to  be  broken  any  more 
as  long  as  my  life  lasts.” 

If  she  don’t  hear  the  roll  of  those  dreadful  carts,  now 
very  nigh  their  journey’s  end,”  said  Mr.  Cruncher,  glan- 
cing over  his  shoulder,  “it’s  my  opinion  that  indeed  she 
never  will  hear  anything  else  in  this  world.” 

And  indeed  she  never  did. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  FOOTSTEPS  DIE  OUT  FOREVER. 

Along  the  Paris  streets,  the  death-carts  rumble,  hollow 
and  harsh.  Six  tumbrils  carry  the  day’s  wine  to  La  Guil- 
otine.  All  the  devouring  and  insatiate  Monsters  imagined 
I since  imagination  could  record  itself,  are  fused  in  the  one 
realisation.  Guillotine.  And  yet  there  is  not  in  France 
with  Its  rich  variety  of  soil  and  climate,  a blade,  a leaf,  a 
root,  a sprig,  a peppercorn,  which  will  grow  to  maturity 
under  conditions  more  certain  than  those  that  have  pro- 
duced this  horror.  Crush  humanity  out  of  shape  once 
more,  under  similar  hammers,  and  it  will  twist  itself  into 
the  same  tortured  forms.  Sow  the  same  seed  of  rapacious 
license  and  oppression  over  again,  and  it  will  surely  yield 
the  same  fruit  according  to  its  kind. 

Six  tumbrils  roll  along  the  streets.  Change  these  back 
again  to  what  they  were,  thou  powerful  enchanter,  Time, 
and  they  shall  be  seen  to  be  the  carriages  of  absolute  mon- 
archs,  the  equipages  of  feudal  nobles,  the  toilettes  of  flar- 
ing Jezebels,  the  churches  that  are  not  my  father’s  house 
but  dens  of  thieves,  the  huts  of  millions  of  starving  peas- 
ants! No;  the  great  magician  who  majestically  works  out 

the  appointed  order  of  the  Creator,  never  reverses  his  trans- 
formations.  “ If  thou  be  changed  into  this  shape  by  the 
will  of  God,”  say  the  seers  to  the  enchanted,  in  the  wise 
Arabian  stories,  “ then  remain  so!  But,  if  thou  wear  this 
iC(rra  through  mere  passing  conjuration,  then  resume  thy 

rol^Ton^^^^^’”  hopeless,  the  tumbrils 

23 


354 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


As  the  sombre  wheels  of  the  six  carts  go  round,  they  . 
seem  to  plough  up  a long  crooked  furrow  among  the  popu- ; 
lace  in  the  streets.  Kidges  of  faces  are  thrown  to  this  side 
and  to  that,  and  the  ploughs  go  steadily  onward.  So  used 
are  the  regular  inhabitants  of  the  houses  to  the  spectacle, 
that  in  many  windows  there  are  no  people,  and  in  some 
the  occupation  of  the  hands  is  not  so  much  as  suspended, 
while  the  eyes  survey  the  faces  in  the  tumbrils.  Here  and 
there,  the  inmate  has  visitors  to  see  the  sight;  then  he 
points  his  finger,  with  something  of  the  complacency  of  a 
curator  or  authorised  exponent,  to  this  cart  and  to  this,  and 
seems  to  tell  who  sat  here  yesterday,  and  who  there  the 
day  before. 

--  Of  the  riders  in  the  tumbrils,  some  observe  these  things,, 
and  all  things  on  their  last  roadside,  with  an  impassive 
stare;  others,  with  a lingering  interest  in  the  ways  of  life 
and  men.  Some,  seated  with  drooping  heads,  aie  sunk  in 
silent  despair;  again,  there  are  some  so  heedful  of  their 
looks  that  they  cast  upon  the  multitude  such  glances  as 
they  have  seen  in  theatres,  and  in  picturesjj  Several  close 
their  eyes,  and  think,  or  try  to  get  their  straying  thoughts 
together.  Only  one,  and  he  a miserable  creature,  of  a 
crazed  aspect,  is  so  shattered  and  made  drunk  by  horror, 
that  he  sings,  and  tries  to  dance.  Not  one  of  the  whole 
number  appeals  by  look  or  gesture,  to  the  pity  of  the 

people.  , 

There  is  a guard  of  sundry  horsemen  riding  abreast  oi 
the  tumbrils,  and  f^ces  are  often  turned  up  to  some  oi 
them,  and  they  are  asked  some  question.  It  would  seen 
to  be  always  the  same  question,  for,  it  is  always  followec 
by  a press  of  people  towards  the  third  cart.  The  horseniei 
abreast  of  that  cart,  frequently  point  out  one  man  in  i 
with  their  swords.  The  leading  curiosity  is,  to  knoy 
which  is  he;  he  stands  at  the  back  of  the  tumbril  with  hi 
head  bent  down,  to  converse  with  a mere  girl  who  sits  oi 
the  side  of  the  cart,  and  holds  his  hand.  He  has  no  cun 
osity  or  care  for  the  scene  about  him,  and  always  speaks  t 
the  girl.  Here  and  there  in  the  long  street  of  St.  Honorc 
cries  are  raised  against  him.  If  they  move  him  at  all,  it  i 
only  to  a quiet  smile,  as  he  shakes  his  hair  a little  moi 
loosely  about  his  face.  He  cannot  easily  touch  his  tace 

his  arms  being  bound.  . 

On  the  steps  of  a church,  awaiting  the  coming-up  o*  tin 


I 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES.  355 

STSitlT?heS'f  P™»Yl>eep.  H,  took,  i„ 

’WL  S:  ■‘---IP,  “H^hf  LSS 

“ • 13'^  - ® clears,  as  he  looks  into  the  third 

Which  ■»  Evrhmonde?”  says  a man  behind  ijm 

« ur  r ■ there.” 

With  his  hand  in  the  girPs?  ” 

Ygs  o • 

the  face  oVE^irond^fs^^^  Evremonde ! ” 

Evreinoiide  then  seorfh!  1 him. 

and  goes  his  t^y!  attentively  at  him, 

into  the  pire  of  Se?n?r.  'a  on 

to  this  side  and  to  that  nn^  i*i<iges  thrown 

the  last  plough  as  it  behind 

Guillotine.  In  front  of  it  s^nV  following  to  the 

of  public  diversion  m chairs,  as  in  a garden 

ting.  On  Z oTthp  f hnit- 

ance  looking  about  for  heTfriend  '"’ 

seenher?^®%heSsVSrge'^’^'  ®hrill  tones.  “Who  has 
siid!'"  " knitting-woman  of  the 

petulantly.  “Ther^se.’^*^^  Vengeance, 

Louder,”  the  woman  recommends. 

wil/scarce'ly‘^£ar^tTeT“Lo^  1^°  w®'’’  ®'‘C 

little  oath  or  so  added  and  vet^^if^^  '’ii  '"'itli  a 

Send  other  women  ^ mul  bring  her. 

somewhere;  anTyet  altholh  «" 

in  the  ehai"'”  «d  b'eTarTite  tafabS  ‘SS. 


356 


A TALE  OP  TWO  CITIES. 


will  be  despatched  in  a wink,  and  she  not  here ! See  her 
knitting  in  my  hand,  and  her  empty  chair  ready  for  her. 
I cry  with  vexation  and  disappointment ! ” 

As  The  Vengeance  descends  from  her  elevation  to  do  it, 
the  tumbrils  begin  to  discharge  their  loads.  The  ministers 

of  Sainte  Guillotine  are  robed  and  ready.  Crash ! A head 

is  held  up,  and  the  knitting- women  who  scarcely  lifted 
their  eyes  to  look  at  it  a moment  ago  when  it  could  think 
and  speak,  count  One. 

The  second  tumbril  empties  and  moves  on;  the  third 
comes  up.  Crash ! — And  the  knitting- women,  never  falter- 
ing or  pausing  in  their  work,  count  Two. 

The  supposed  Evremoiide  descends,  and  the  seamstress 
is  lifted  out  next  after  him.  He  has  not  relinquished  her 
patient  hand  in  getting  out,  but  still  holds  it  as  he  prom- 
ised. He  gently  places  her  with  her  back  to  the  crashing 
engine  that  constantly  whirrs  up  and  falls,  and  she  looks 
into  his  face  and  thanks  him. 

“ But  for  you,  dear  stranger,  I should  not  be  so  com- 
posed, for  I am  naturally  a poor  little  thing,  faint  of  heart; 
nor  should  I have  been  able  to  raise  my  thoughts  to  Him 
who  was  put  to  death,  that  we  might  have  hope  and 
comfort  here  to-day.  I think  you  were  sent  to  me  bv 
Heaven.” 

Or  you  to  me,”  says  Sydney  Carton.  ^*Keep  your  eyes 
upon  me,  dear  child,  and  mind  no  other  object.” 

“ I mind  nothing  while  I hold  your  hand.  I shall  mind 
nothing  when  I let  it  go,  if  they  are  rapid.” 

“ They  will  be  rapid.  Fear  not!  ” 

The  two  stand  in  the  fast-thinning  throng  of  victims, 
but  they  speak  as  if  they  were  alone.  Eye  to  eye,  voice 
to  voice,  hand  to  hand,  heart  to  heart,  these  two  children 
of  the  Universal  Mother,  else  so  wide  apart  and  differing, 
have  come  together  on  the  dark  highway,  to  repair  home 
together,  and  to  rest  in  her  bosom. 

“ Brave  and  generous  friend,  will  you  let  me  ask  you  one 
last  question?  I am  very  ignorant,  and  it  troubles  me — 
just  a little.” 

“Tell  me  what  it  is.” 

“ I have  a cousin,  an  only  relative  and  an  orphan,  like 
myself,  whom  I love  very  dearly.  She  is  five  years  younge  '. 
than  I,  and  she  lives  in  a farmer’s  house  in  the  soutl  -i 
country.  Poverty  parted  us,  and  she  knows  nothing  of  m;‘  .j 


A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


357 


fate—for  I cannot  write— and  if  I could,  how  should  I tell 
her!  It  IS  better  as  it  is.” 

“ yes:  better  as  it  is.” 

What  I have  been  thinking  as  we  came  along,  and  what 

I as  I look  into  your  kind  strong 

ace  which  gives  me  so  much  support,  is  this:— If  the  Ee- 
pubhc  really  does  good  to  the  poor,  mid  they  com^to  be 

sh^  may  live  a 

long  time:  she  may  even  live  to  be  old.”  ^ 

“What  then,  my  gentle  sister?  ” 

is  so^mifcr  ” the  uncomplaining  eyes  in  which  there 

IS  so  much  endurance,  fill  with  tears,  and  the  lips  part  a 
h tie  more  and  tremble:  “that  it  will  seem  long  tome 
while  I wait  for  her  in  the  better  land  where  I trLt  both 
you  and  I will  be  mercifully  sheltered 

You  comfort  me  so  much ! I am  so  ignorant.  Am  I 
to  kiss  you  now?  Is  the  moment  come? 

Yes.’^ 

eac?othir%^£^'^'’  n"  uT®  they  solemnly  bless 
each  other.  The  spare  hand  does  not  tremble  as  he  releases 

patienf  constancy  is  in  the 

ptient  face.  She  goes  next  before  him— is  gone-  the 
knitting-women  count  Twenty-Two.  ° 

^«s^^i-rection  and  the  Life,  saith  the  Lord:  he 
that  believeth  m me,  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he 
die.”  whosoever  liveth  and  believeth  in  me  shall  never 

The  murmuring  of  many  voices,  the  upturning  of  manv 

tWowd  ^soTaf  T *he  outskirts  of 

owd,  so  that  it  swells  forward  in  a mass  like  one 

great  heave  of  water,  all  flashes  away.  Twenty-Three. 


the^’^nTactfulllt^™’  ^as 

Pcacetullest  man’s  face  ever  beheld  there  Manv 
added  that  he  looked  sublime  and  prophetic.  * ^ 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  sufferers  by  the  same  axe 

low  S';;  S h ’"‘f,'*  O'  ‘"o 

TOtaS™  W ^ T'*'  thoughts  that 

and  they  were  prophetic,  they  would  have  been  these*:  ’ 


368  A TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES.  ' 

“I  see  Barsad,  and  Cly,  Defarge,  The  Vengeance,  the  ^ 
Juryman,  the  Judge,  long  ranks  of  the  new  oppressors  who 
have  risen  on  the  destruction  of  the  old,  perishing  by  this 
retributive  instrument,  before  it  shall  cease  out  of  its  pres- 
ent use.  I see  a beautiful  city  and  a brilliant  people  rising 
from  this  abyss,  and,  in  their  struggles  to  be  truly  free,  in 
their  triumphs  and  defeats,  through  long  long  years  to 
come,  I see  the  evil  of  this  time  and  of  the  previous  time 
of  which  this  is  the  natural  birth,  gradually  making  expia- 
tion for  itself  and.  wearing  out. 

“ I see  the  lives  for  which  I lay  down  my  life,  peaceful, 
useful,  prosperous  and  happy,  in  that  England  which  I 
shall  see  no  more.  I see  Her  with  a child  upon  her  bosom, 
who  bears  my  name.  I see  her  father,  aged  and  bent,  but 
otherwise  restored,  and  faithful  to  all  men  in  his  healing 
office,  and  at  peace.  I see  the  good  old  man,  so  long  their 
friend,  in  ten  years’  time  enriching  them  with  all  he  has, 
and  passing  tranquilly  to  his  reward. 

“I  see  that  I hold  a sanctuary  n their  hearts,  and  in 
the  hearts  of  their  descendants,  generations  hence.  I see 
her,  an  old  woman,  weeping  for  me  on  the  anniversary  of 
this  day.  I see  her  and  her  husbai.d,  their  course  done, 
lying  side  by  side  in  their  last  eai  It'ly  bed,  and  I know 
that  each  was  not  more  honoured  atii'  held  sacred  in  the 
other’s  soul,  than  I was  in  the  souls  of  ooth. 

“ I see  that  child  who  lay  upon  her  bosom  and  who  bore 
my  name,  a man  winning  his  way  up  in  that  path  of  life 
which  once  was  mine.  I see  him  winning  it  so  well,  that 
my  name  is  made  illustrious  there  by  the  light  of  his.  I 
see  the  blots  I threw  upon  it,  faded  away.  I see  him,  fore- 
most of  just  judges  and  honoured  men,  bringing  a boy  of 
my  name,  with  a forehead  that  I know  and  golden  hair,  to 
this  place — then  fair  to  look  upon,  with  not  a trace  of.  this 
day’s  disfigurement — and  I hear  him  tell  the  child  my 
story,  with  a tender  and  a faltering  voice. 

“ It  is  a far,  far  better  thing  that  I do,  than  I have  ever 
done;  it  is  a far,  far  better  rest  that  I go  to  than  I have 
ever  known.” 


THE  END. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO 
IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


:r;; 

■ Hs 

1 

^ * 

■■ 

- '^. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO 
IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

In  the  autumn  month  of  September,  eighteen  hundred 
and  fifty-seven,  wherein  these  presents  bear  date,  two  idle 
apprentices,  exhausted  by  the  long,  hot  summer,  and  the 
long,  hot  work  it  had  brought  with  it,  ran  away  from  their 
employer.  They  were  bound  to  a highly  meritorious  lady 
(named  Literature),  of  fair  credit  and  repute,  though,  it 
must  be  acknowledged,  not  quite  so  highly  esteemed  in  the 
City  as  she  might  be.  This  is  the  more  remarkable,  as 
there  is  nothing  against  the  respectable  lady  in  that  quar- 
ter, but  quite  the  contrary;  her  family  having  rendered 
eminent  service  to  many  famous  citizens  of  London.  It 
may  be  sufficient  to  name  Sir  William  Walworth,  Lord 
Mayor  under  King  Eichard  II.,  at  the  time  of  Wat  Tyler's 
insurrection,  and  Sir  Richard  Whittington:  which  latter 
distinguished  man  and  magistrate  was  doubtless  indebted 
to  the^  lady's  family  for  the  gift  of  his  celebrated  cat. 
There  is  also  strong  reason  to  suppose  that  they  rang  the 
Highgate  bells  for  him  with  their  own  hands. 

The  niisguided  young  men  who  thus  shirked  their  duty 
to  the  mistress  from  whom  they  had  received  many  favours, 
were  actuated  by  the  low  idea  of  making  a perfectly  idle 
trip,  in  any  direction.  Tliey  had  no  intention  of  going  any- 
where in  particular;  they  wanted  to  see  nothing,  they 
wanted  to  know  nothing,  they  wanted  to  learn  nothing, 
they  wanted  to  do  nothing.  They  wanted  only  to  be  idle. 
They  took  to  themselves  (after  Hogarth),  the  names  of 
Mr.  Thomas  Idle  and  Mr.  Francis  Goodchild;  but  there 
was  not  a moral  pin  to  choose  between  them,  and  they  were 
both  idle  in  the  last  degree. 

Between  Francis  and  Thomas,  however,  there  was  this 


2 THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES, 

difference  of  character:  Goodchild  was  laboriously  idle, 
and  would  take  upon  himself  any  amount  of  pains  and  la- 
bour to  assure  himself  that  he  was  idle;  in  short,  had  no 
better  idea  of  idleness  than  that  it  was  useless  industry. 
Thomas  Idle,  on  the  other  hand,  was  an  idler  of  the  un- 
mixed Irish  or  Neapolitan  type;  a passive  idler,  a born- 
and-bred  idler,  a consistent  idler,  who  practised  what  he 
would  have  preached  if  he  had  not  been  too  idle  to  preach; 
a one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite  of  idleness. 

The  two  idle  apprentices  found  themselves,  within  a few 
hours  of  their  escape,  walking  down  into  the  North  of  Eng- 
land, that  is  to  say,  Thomas  was  lying  in  a meadow,  look- 
ing at  the  railway  trains  as  they  passed  over  a distant  via- 
duct— which  was  his  idea  of  walking  down  into  the  North; 
while  Francis  was  walking  a mile  due  South  against  time 
— which  was  his  idea  of  walking  down  into  the  North.  In 
the  meantime  the  day  waned,  and  the  mile-stones  remained 
unconquered. 

‘‘Tom,’'  said  Goodchild,  “the  sun  is  getting  low.  Up, 
and  let  us  go  forward ! ” 

“ Nay,”  quoth  Thomas  Idle,  “ I have  not  done  with  Annie 
Laurie  yet.”  And  he  proceeded  with  that  idle  but  popular 
ballad,  to  the  effect  that  for  the  boiifnie  young  person  of 
that  name  he  would  “ lay  him  doon  and  dee  ” — equivalent, 
in  prose,  to  lay  him  down  and  die. 

“ \Yhat  an  ass  that  fellow  was ! ” cried  Goodchild,  with 
the  bitter  emphasis  of  contempt. 

“ Which  fellow?  ” asked  Thomas  Idle. 

“The  fellow  in  your  song.  Lay  him  doon  and  dee! 
Finely  he’d  show  off  before  the  girl  by  doing  that,  A 
sniveller!  Why  couldn’t  he  get  up,  and  punch  somebody’s 
head ! ” 

“ Whose?  ” asked  Thomas  Idle. 

“Anybody’s.  Everybody’s  would  be  better  than  no- 
body’s! If  I fell  into  that  state  of  mind  about  a girl,  do 
you  think  I’d  lay  me  doon  and  dee?  No,  sir,”  proceeded 
Goodchild,  with  a disparaging  assumption  of  the  Scottish 
accent,  “I’d  get  me  oop  and  peetch  into  somebody. 
Wouldn’t  you?  ” 

“I  wouldn’t  have  anything  to  do  with  her,”  yawned 
Thomas  Idle.  “ Why  should  I take  the  trouble?  ” 

“It’s  no  trouble,  Tom,  to  fall  in  love,”  said  Goodchild, 
shaking  his  head. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  3 

trouble  enough  to  fall  out  of  it,  once  you’re  in  it,” 
retorted  Tom.  So  I keep  out  of  it  altogether.  It  would 
be  better  for  you,  if  you  did  the  same.” 

Mr.  Goodchild,  who  is  always  in  love  with  somebody, 
and  not  unfrequently  with  several  objects  at  once,  made  no 
reply.  He  heaved  a sigh  of  the  kind  which  is  termed  by 
the  lower  orders  a bellowser,”  and  then,  heaving  Mr.  Idle 
on  his  feet  (who  was  not  half  so  heavy  as  the  sigh),  urged 
him  northward. 

These  two  had  sent  their  personal  baggage  on  by  train  : 
only  retaining  each  a knapsack.  Idle  now  applied  himself 
to  constantly  regretting  the  train,  to  tracking  it  through 
the  intricacies  of  Bradshaw’s  Guide,  and  finding  out  where 
it  is  now — and  where  now — and  where  now — and  to  asking 
what  was  the  use  of  walking,  when  you  could  ride  at  such 
a pace  as  that.  Was  it  to  see  the  country?  If  that  was 
the  object,  look  at  it  out  of  the  carriage- windows.  There 
was  a great  deal  more  of  it  to  be  seen  there  than  here. 
Besides,  who  wanted  to  see  the  country?  Nobody.  And 
again,  whoever  did  walk?  Nobody.  Fellows  set  off  to 
walk,  but  they  never  did  it.  They  came  back  and  said  they 
did,  but  they  didn’t.  Then  why  should  he  walk?  He 
wouldn’t  walk.  He  swore  it  by  this  milestone! 

It  was  the  fifth  from  London,  so  far  had  they  penetrated 
into  the  North.  Submitting  to  the  powerful  chain  of  argu- 
ment, Goodchild  proposed  a return  to  the  Metropolis,  and  a 
falling  back  upon  Euston  Square  Terminus.  Thomas  as- 
sented with  alacrity,  and  so  they  walked  down  into  the 
North  by  the  next  morning’s  express,  and  carried  their 
knapsacks  in  the  luggage-van. 

It  was  like  all  other  expresses,  as  every  express  is  and 
must  be.  It  bore  through  the  harvest  country  a smell  like 
a large  washing-day,  and  a sharp  issue  of  steam  as  from  a 
huge  brazen  tea-urn.  The  greatest  power  in  nature  and  art 
combined,  it  yet  glided  over  dangerous  heights  in  the  sight 
of  people  looking  up  from  fields  and  roads,  as  smoothly  and 
unreally  as  a light  miniature  plaything.  Now,  the  engine 
shrieked  in  hysterics  of  such  intensity,  that  it  seemed  desir- 
able that  the  men  who  had  her  in  charge  should  hold  her 
feet,  slap  her  hands,  and  bring  her  to;  now,  burrowed  into 
tunnels  with  a stubborn  and  undemonstrative  energy  so  con- 
fusing that  the  train  seemed  to  be  flying  back  into  leagues 
of  darkness.  Here,  were  station  after  station,  swallowed  up 


4 THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

by  the  express  without  stopping;  here,  stations  where  it 
fired  itself  in  like  a volley  of  cannon-balls,  swooped  away 
four  country-people  with  nosegays,  and  three  men  of  busi- 
ness with  portmanteaus,  and  fired  itself  off  again,  bang, 
bang,  bang ! At  long  intervals  were  uncomfortable  refresh- 
ment-rooms, made  more  uncomfortable  by  the  scorn  of 
Beauty  towards  Beast,  the  public  (but  to  whom  she  never  re- 
lented, as  Beauty  did  in  the  story,  towards  the  other  Beast), 
and  where  sensitive  stomachs  were  fed,  with  a contemptuous 
sharpness  occasioning  indigestion.  Here,  again,  were  sta- 
tions with  nothing  going  but  a bell,  and  wonderful  wooden 
razors  set  aloft  on  great  posts,  shaving  the  air.  In  these 
fields,  the  horses,  sheep,  and  cattle  were  well  used  to  the 
thundering  meteor,  and  didn’t  mind;  in  those,  they  were 
all  set  scampering  together,  and  a herd  of  pigs  scoured 
after  them.  The  pastoral  country  darkened,  became  coaly, 
became  smoky,  became  infernal,  got  better,  got  worse,  im- 
proved again,  grew  rugged,  turned  romantic;  was  a wood, 
a stream,  a chain  of  hills,  a gorge,  a moor,  a cathedral 
town,  a fortified  place,  a waste.  Now,  miserable  black 
dwellings,  a black  canal,  and  sick  black  towers  of  chim- 
neys; now,  a trim  garden,  where  the  flowers  were  bright 
and  fair;  now,  a wilderness  of  hideous  altars  all  a-blaze; 
now,  the  water  meadows  with  their  fairy  rings;  now,  the 
mangy  patch  of  unlet  building  ground  outside  the  stagnant 
town,  with  the  larger  ring  where  the  Circus  was  last  week. 
The  temperature  changed,  the  dialect  changed,  the  people 
changed,  faces  got  sharper,  manner  got  shorter,  eyes  got 
shrewder  and  harder;  yet  all  so  quickly,  that  the  spruce 
guard  in  the  London  uniform  and  silver  lace,  had  not  yet 
rumpled  his  shirt  collar,  delivered  half  the  despatches  in 
his  shiny  little  pouch,  or  read  his  newspaper. 

Carlisle ! Idle  and  Goodchild  had  got  to  Carlisle.  It 
looked  congenially  and  delightfully  idle.  Something  in 
the  way  of  public  amusement  had  happened  last  month, 
and  something  else  was  going  to  happen  before  Christmas; 
and,  in  the  meantime  there  was  a lecture  on  India  for  those 
who  liked  it — which  Idle  and  Goodchild  did  not.  Like- 
wise, by  those  who  liked  them,  there  were  impressions  to 
be  bought  of  all  the  vapid  prints,  going  and  gone,  and  of 
nearly  all  the  vapid  books.  For  those  who  wanted  to  put 
anything  in  missionary  boxes,  here  were  the  boxes.  For 
those  who  wanted  the  Beverend  Mr.  Podgers  (artist’s 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  5 

proofs,  thirty  shillings),  here  was  Mr.  Podgers  to  any 
amount.  Not  less  gracious  and  abundant,  Mr.  Codgers 
also  of  the  vineyard,  but  opposed  to  Mr.  Podgers,  brotherly 
tooth  and  nail.  Here,  were  guide-books  to  the  neighbour- 
ing antiquities,  and  eke  the  Lake  country,  in  several  dry 
and  husky  sorts;  here,  many  physically  and  morally  im- 
possible heads  of  both,  sexes,  for  young  ladies  to  copy,  in 
the  exercise  of  the  art  of  drawing;  here,  further,  a large 
impression  of  Mr.  Spurgeon,  solid  as  to  the  flesh,  not  to 
say  even  something  gross.  The  working  young  men  of 
Carlisle  were  drawn  up,  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets, 
across  the  pavements,  four  and  six  abreast,  and  appeared 
(much  to  the  satisfaction  of  Mr.  Idle)  to  have  nothing  else 
to  do.  The  working  and  growing  young  women  of  Car- 
lisle, from  the  age  of  twelve  upwards,  promenaded  the 
streets  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  and  rallied  the  said 
young  men.  Sometimes  the  young  men  rallied  the  young 
women,  as  in  the  case  of  a group  gathered  round  an  ac- 
cordion-player, from  among  whom  a young  man  advanced 
behind  a young  woman  for  whom  he  appeared  to  have  a 
tenderness,  and  hinted  to  her  that  he  was  there  and  play- 
ful, by  giving  her  (he  wore  clogs)  a kick. 

On  market  morning,  Carlisle  woke  up  amazingly,  and  be- 
came (to  the  Two  Idle  Apprentices)  disagreeably  and  re- 
proachfully busy.  ^ There  were  its  cattle  market,  its  sheep 
market,  arid  its  pig  market  down  by  the  river,  with  raw- 
boned  and  shock-headed  Eob  Eoys  hiding  their  Lowland 
dresses  beneath  heavy  plaids,  prowling  in  and  out  among 
the  animals,  and  flavouring  the  air  with  fumes  of  whiskey. 
There  was  its  corn  market  down  the  main  street,  with  hum 
of  chaffering  over  open  sacks.  There  was  its  general  mar- 
ket in  the  street  too,  with  heather  brooms  on  which  the 
purple  flower  still  flourished,  and  heather  baskets  primitive 
and  fresh  to  behold.  With  women  trying  on  clogs  and 
caps  at  open  stalls,  and  '‘Bible  stalls ''  adjoining.  With 
"Doctor  Mantle’s  Dispensary  for  the  cure  of  all  Human 
Maladies  and  no  charge  for  advice,”  and  with  Doctor  Man- 
tle’s "Laboratory  of  Medical,  Chemical,  and  Botanical  Sci- 
ence ” — both  healing  institutions  established  on  one  pair  of 
trestles,  one  board,  and  one  sun-blind.  With  the  renowned 
phrenologist  from  London,  begging  to  be  favoured  (at  six- 
pence each)  with  the  company  of  clients  of  both  sexes,  to 
whom,  on  examination  of  their  heads ^ he  would  make  rev- 


C)  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

elatioiis  enabling  him  or  her  to  know  themselves.’' 
Through  all  these  bargains  and  blessings,  the  recruitiiig- 
serjeant  watchfully  elbowed  his  way,  a thread  of  War  in 
the  peaceful  skein.  Likewise  on  the  walls  were  printed 
hints  that  the  Oxford  Blues  might  not  be  indisposed  to 
hear  of  a few  fine  active  young  men;  and  that  whereas  the 
standard  of  that  distinguished  corps  is  full  six  feet, 
growing  lads  of  five  feet  eleven  ’’  need  not  absolutely  de- 
spair of  being  accepted. 

Scenting  the  morning  air  more  pleasantly  than  the  buried 
majesty  of  Denmark  did,  Messrs.  Idle  and  Goodchild  rode 
away  from  Carlisle  at  eight  o’clock  one  forenoon,  bound 
for  the  village  of  Heske,  Newmarket,  some  fourteen  miles 
distant.  Goodchild  (who  had  already  begun  to  doubt 
whether  he  was  idle : as  his  way  always  is  when  he  has 
nothing  to  do),  had  read  of  a certain  black  old  Cumberland 
hill  or  mountain,  called  Carrock,  or  Carrock  Fell;  and  had 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  it  would  be  the  culminating 
triumph  of  Idleness  to  ascend  the  same.  Thomas  Idle, 
dwelling  on  the  pains  inseparable  from  that  achievement, 
had  expressed  the  strongest  doubts  of  the  expediency,  and 
even  of  the  sanity,  of  the  enterprise;  but  Goodchild  had 
carried  his  point,  and  they  rode  away. 

Up  hill  and  down  hill,  and  twisting  to  the  right,  and 
twisting  to  the  left,  and  with  old  Skiddaw  (who  has  vaunted 
himself  a great  deal  more  than  his  merits  deserve;  but  that 
is  rather  the  way  of  the  Lake  country),  dodging  the  ap- 
prentices in  a picturesque  and  pleasant  manner.  Good, 
weather-proof,  warm,  pleasant  houses,  well  white-limed, 
scantily  dotting  the  road.  Clean  children  coming  out  to 
look,  carrying  other  clean  children  as  big  as  themselves. 
Harvest  still  lying  out  and  much  rained  upon;  here  and 
there,  harvest  still  unreaped.  Well-cultivated  gardens  at- 
tached to  the  cottages,  with  plenty  of  produce  forced  out 
of  their  hard  soil.  Lonely  nooks,  and  wild;  but  people 
can  be  born,  and  married,  and  buried  in  such  nooks,  and 
can  live  and  love,  and  be  loved,  there  as  elsewhere,  thank 
God ! (Mr.  Goodchild’s  remark.)  By-and-bye,  the  village. 
Black,  coarse-stoned,  rough- windowed  houses;  some  with 
outer  staircases,  like  Swiss  houses;  a sinuous  and  stony  gut- 
ter winding  up  hill  and  round  the  corner,  by  way  of  street. 
All  the  children  running  out  directly.  Women  pausing  in 
washing,  to  peep  from  doorways  and  very  little  windows. 


! THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  7 

Such  were  the  observations  of  Messrs.  Idle  and  Goodehild 
as  their  conveyance  stopped  at  the  village  shoemaker’s! 
Old  Carrock  gloomed  down  upon  it  all  in  a very  ill-tempered 
state;  and  rain  was  beginning. 

The^  village  shoemaker  declined  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  Carrock.  No  visitors  went  up  Carrock.  No  visitors 
came  there  at  all.  Aa’  the  world  ganged  awa’  yon.  The 
driver  appealed  to  the  Innkeeper.  The  Innkeeper  had  two 
men  working  in  the  fields,  and  one  of  them  should  be  called 
in,  to  go  up  Carrock  as  guide.  Messrs.  Idle  and  Good- 
child,  highly  approving,  entered  the  Innkeeper’s  house,  to 
drink  whiskey  and  eat  oatcake. 

The  Innkeeper  was  not  idle  enough— was  not  idle  at  all, 
which  was  a great  fault  in  him — but  was  a fine  specimen 
of  a north-country  man,  or  any  kind  of  man.  He  had  a 
ruddy  cheek,  a bright  eye,  a well-knit  frame,  an  immense 
hand,  a cheery  out-speaking  voice,  and  a straight,  bright, 
broad  look.  He  had  a drawing-room,  too,  up-stairs,  which 
was  worth  a visit  to  the  Cumberland  Fells.  (This  was  Mr. 
Francis  Goodchild’s  opinion,  in  which  Mr.  Thomas  Idle 
did  not  concur. ) 

The  ceiling  of  this  drawing-room  was  so  crossed  and  re- 
crossed by  beams  of  unequal  lengths,  radiating  from  a cen- 
tre, in  a corner,  that  it  looked  like  a broken  star-fish. 
The  room  was  comfortably  and  solidly  furnished  with  good 
mahogany  and  horsehair.  It  had  a snug  fire-side,  and  a 
couple  of  well-curtained  windows,  looking  out  upon  the 
wild  country  behind  the  house.  What  it  most  developed’ 
was  an  unexpected  taste  for  little  ornaments  and  nick- 
nacks,  of  which  it  contained  a most  surprising  number. 

1 hey  were  not  very  various,  consisting  in  great  part  of 
waxen  babies  with  their  limbs  more  or  less  mutilated,  ap- 
pealing on  one  leg  to  the  parental  affections  from  under  lit- 
e cupping  glasses;  but.  Uncle  Tom  was  there,  in  crock- 
sry,  receiving  theological  instructions  from  Miss  Eva,  who 
grew  out  of  his  side  like  a wen,  in  an  exceedingly  rough 
state  of  profile  propagandism.  Engravings  of  Mr.  Hunt’s 
after  his  pie,  were  on  the  wall,  di- 
U f highly-coloured  nautical  piece,  the  subject  of 
(vhich  had  all  her  colours  (and  more)  flying,  and  was  mak- 
ng  great  way  through  a sea  of  a regular  pattern,  like  a 
ady  s collar  A benevolent,  elderly  gentleman  of  the  last 
ientury,  with  a powdered  head,  kept  guard,  in  oil  and  var- 


8 THE  LAZY  TOUE  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

nish,  over  a most  perplexing  piece  of  furniture  on  a table; 
in  appearance  between  a driving  seat  and  an  angular  knife- 
box,  but,  when  opened,  a musical  instrument  of  tinkling 
wires,  exactly  like  David’s  harp  packed  for  travelling. 
Everything  became  a nicknack  in  this  curious  room.  The 
copper  tea-kettle,  burnished  up  to  the  highest  point  of 
glory,  took  his  station  on  a stand  of  his  own  at  the  greatest 
possible  distance  from  the  fire-place,  and  said : “ By  your 
leave,  not  a kittle,  but  a bijou.”  The  Staffordshire-ware 
butter-dish  with  the  cover  on  got  upon  a little  round  occa- 
sional table  in  a window,  with  a worked  top,  and  an- 
nounced itself  to  the  two  chairs  accidentally  placed  there, 
as  an  aid  to  polite  conversation,  a graceful  trifle  in  china  to 
be  chatted  over  by  callers,  as  they  airily  trifled  away  the 
visiting  moments  of  a butterfly  existence,  in  that  rugged 
old  village  on  the  Cumberland  Fells.  The  very  footstool 
could  not  keep  the  floor,  but  got  upon  a sofa,  and  there- 
from proclaimed  itself,  in  high  relief  of  white  and  liver- 
coloured  wool,  a favourite  spaniel  coiled  up  for  repose. 
Though,  truly,  in  spite  of  its  bright  glass  eyes,  the  spaniel 
was  the  least  successful  assumption  in  the  collection : being 
perfectly  flat,  and  dismally  suggestive  of  a recent  mistake 
in  sitting  down  on  the  part  of  some  corpulent  member  of 
the  family. 

There  were  books,  too,  in  this  room;  books  on  the  table, 
books  on  the  chimney-piece,  books  in  an  open  press  in  the 
corner.  Fielding  was  there,  and  Smollett  was  there,  and 
Steele  and  Addison  were  there,  in  dispersed  volumes;  and 
there  were  tales  of  those  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships, 
for  windy  nights;  and  there  was  really  a choice  of  good 
books  for  rainy  days  or  fine.  It  was  so  very  pleasant  to 
see  these  things  in  such  a lonesome  by-place — so  very 
agreeable  to  find  these  evidences  of  a taste,  however  home- 
ly, that  went  beyond  the  beautiful  cleanliness  and  trimness 
of  the  house — so  fanciful  to  imagine  what  a wonder  such  a 
room  must  be  to  the  little  children  born  in  the  gloomy  village 
—what  grand  impressions  of  it  those  of  them  who  became 
wanderers  over  the  earth  would  carry  away;  and  how,  at 
distant  ends  of  the  world,  some  old  voyagers  would  die, 
cherishing  the  belief  that  the  finest  apartment  known  to 
men  was  once  in  the  Heske-Kewmarket  Inn,  in  rare  old 
Cumberland — it  was  such  a charmingly  lazy  pursuit  to  en- 
tertain these  rambling  thoughts  over  the  choice  oatcake  and 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  9 


the  genial  whiskey,  that  Mr.  Idle  and  Mr.  Goodchild  never 
asked  themselves  how  it  came  to  pass  that  the  men  in  the 
fields  were  never  heard  of  more,  how  the  stalwart  landlord 
replaced  them  without  explanation,  how  his  dog-cart  came 
to  be  waiting  at  the  door,  and  how  everything  was  arranged 
without  the  least  arrangement  for  climbing  to  old  Carrock’s 
shoulders,  and  standing  on  his  head. 

Without  a word  of  inquiry,  therefore,  the  Two  Idle  Ap- 
prentices drifted  out  resignedly  into  a fine,  soft,  close, 
drowsy,  penetrating  rain;  got  into  the  landlord's  light  dog- 
cart, and  rattled  off  through  the  village  for  the  foot  of  Car- 
rock.  The  journe}^  at  the  outset  was  not  remarkable.  The 
Cumberland  road  went  up  and  down  like  all  other  roads; 
the  Cumberland  curs  burst  out  from  backs  of  cottages  and 
barked  like  other  curs,  and  the  Cumberland  peasantry 
stared  after  the  dog-cart  amazedly,  as  long  as  it  was  in 
sight,  like  the  rest  of  their  race.  The  approach  to  the  foot 
of  the  mountain  resembled  the  approaches  to  the  feet  of 
most  other  mountains  all  over  the  world.  The  cultivation 
gradually  ceased,  the  trees  grew  gradually  rare,  the  road 
became  gradually  rougher,  and  the  sides  of  the  mountain 
looked  gradually  more  and  more  lofty,  and  more  and  more 
difficult  to  get  up.  The  dog-cart  was  left  at  a lonely  farm- 
house. The  landlord  borrowed  a large  umbrella,  and,  as- 
suming in  an  instant  the  character  of  the  most  cheerful  and 
adventurous  of  guides,  led  the  way  to  the  ascent.  Mr. 
Goodchild  looked  eagerly  at  the  top  of  the  mountain,  and, 
feeling  apparently  that  he  was  now  going  to  be  very  lazy 
indeed,  shone  all  over  wonderfully  to  the  eye,  under  the 
influence  of  the  contentment  within  and  the  moisture  with- 
out. Only  in  the  bosom  of  Mr.  Thomas  Idle  did  Despond- 
ency now  hold  her  gloomy  state.  He  kept  it  a secret;  but 
he  would  have  given  a very  handsome  sum,  when  the  ascent 
began,  to  have  been  back  again  at  the  inn.  The  sides  of 
Carrock  looked  fearfully  steep,  and  the  top  of  Carrock  was 
hidden  in  mist.  The  rain  was  falling  faster  and  faster. 
The  knees  of  Mr.  Idle — always  weak  on  walking  excursions 
— shivered  and  shook  with  fear  and  damp.  The  wet  was 
already  penetrating  through  the  young  man’s  outer  coat  to 
a brand-new  shooting- jacket,  for  which  he  had  reluctantly 
paid  the  large  sum  of  two  guineas  on  leaving  town;  he  had 
no  stimulating  refreshment  about  him  but  a small  packet 
of  clammy  gingerbread  nuts;  he  had  nobody  to  give  him 


10  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OP  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

an  arm,  nobody  to  push  him  gently  behind,  nobody  to  pull 
Jig, nobody  to  speak  to  who  really  felt 
the  difficulties  of  the  ascent,  the  dampness  of  the  rain,  the 
denseness  of  the  mist,  and  the  unutterable  folly  of  climb- 
ing, undriven,  up  any  steep  place  in  the  world,  when  there 
IS  level  ground  within  reach  to  walk  on  instead.  Was  it 
for  this  tha,t  Thomas  had  left  London?  London,  where 
there  are  nice  short  walks  in  level  public  gardens,  with 
benches  of  repose  set  up  at  convenient  distances  for  weary 
travellers— London,  where  rugged  stone  is  humanely 
pounded  into  little  lumps  for  the  road,  and  intelligently 
shaped  into  smooth  slabs  for  the  pavement!  No!  it  was 
not  for  the  laborious  ascent  of  the  crags  of  Carrock  that 
Idle  had  left  his  native  city,  and  travelled  to  Cumberland. 
Never  did  he  feel  more  disastrously  convinced  that  he  had 
committed  a very  grave  error  in  judgment  than  when  he 
found  himself  standing  in  the  rain  at  the  bottom  of  a steep 
mountain,  and  knew  that  the  responsibility  rested  on  his 
weak  shoulders  of  actually  getting  to  the  top  of  it. 

The  honest  landlord  went  first,  the  beaming  Goodchild 
followed,  the  mournful  Idle  brought  up  the  rear.  From 
time  to  time,  the  two  foremost  members  of  the  expedition 
changed  places  in  the  order  of  march;  but  the  rearguard 
never  altered  his  position.  Up  the  mountain  or  down  the 
mountain,  in  the  water  or  out  of  it,  over  the  rocks,  through 
the  bogs,  skirting  the  heather,  Mr.  Thomas  Idle  was  al- 
ways the  last,  and  was  always  the  man  who  had  to  be 
looked  after  and  waited  for.  At  first  the  ascent  was  de- 
lusively easy,  the  sides  of  the  mountain  sloped  gradually, 
and  the  material  of  which  they  were  composed  was  a soft 
spongy  turf,  very  tender  and  pleasant  to  walk  upon.  After 
a hundred  yards  or  so,  however,  the  verdant  scene  and  the 
easy  slope  disappeared,  and  the  rocks  began.  Not  noble, 
massive  rocks,  standing  upright,  keeping  a certain  regu- 
larity in  their  positions,  and  possessing,  now  and  then,  flat 
tops  to  sit  upon,  but  little,  irritating,  comfortless  rocks, 
littered  about  anyhow  by  Nature;  treacherous,  dishearten- 
ing^  rocks  of  all  sorts  of  small  shapes  and  small  sizes, 
bruisers  of  tender  toes  and  trippers-up  of  wavering  feet. 
When  these  impediments  were  passed,  heather  and  slough 
followed.  Here  the  steepness  of  the  ascent  was  slightly 
mitigated;  and  here  the  exploring  party  of  three  turned 
round  to  look  at  the  view  below  them.  The  scene  of  the 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  H 


moorland  and  the  fields  was  like  a feeble  water-colour 
drawing  half  sponged  out.  The  mist  was  darkening,  the 
rain  was  thickening,  the  trees  were  dotted  about  like  spots 
of  faint  shadow,  the  division-lines  which  mapped  out  the 
fields  were  all  getting  blurred  together,  and  the  lonely 
farm-house  where  the  dog-cart  had  been  left,  loomed  spec- 
tral in  the  grey  light  like  the  last  human  dwelling  at  the 
end  of  the  habitable  world.  Was  this  a sight  worth  climb- 
ing to  see?  Surely — surely  not! 

Up  again — for  the  top  of  Carrock  is  not  reached  yet. 
The  landlord,  just  as  good-tempered  and  obliging  as  he 
was  at  the  bottom  of  the  mountain.  Mr.  Goodchild  brighter 
ill  the  eyes  and  rosier  in  the  face  than  ever;  full  of  cheer- 
ful remarks  and  apt  quotations;  and  walking  with  a spring- 
iness of  step  wonderful  to  behold.  Mr.  Idle,  farther  and 
farther  in  the  rear,  with  the  water  squeaking  in  the  toes  of 
his  boots,  with  his  two-guinea  shooting- jacket  clinging 
damply  to  his  aching  sides,  with  his  overcoat  so  full  of 
rain,  and  standing  out  so  pyramidically  stiff,  in  conse- 
quence, from  his  shoulders  downwards,  that  he  felt  as  if 
he  was  walking  in  a gigantic  extinguisher — the  despairing 
spirit  within  him  representing  but  too  aptly  the  candle  that 
had  just  been  put  out.  Up  and  up  and  up  again,  till  a 
ridge  is  reached  and  the  outer  edge  of  the  mist  on  the  sum- 
mit of  Carrock  is  darkly  and  drizzlingly  n^ar.  Is  this  the 
top?  No,  nothing  like  the  top.  It  is  an  aggravating  pe- 
culiarity of  all  mountains,  that,  although  they  have  only 
one  top  when  they  are  seen  (as  they  ought  always  to  be 
seen)  from  below,  they  turn  out  to  have  a perfect  eruption 
of  false  tops  whenever  the  traveller  is  sufficiently  ill-ad- 
vised to  go  out  of  his  way  for  the  purpose  of  ascending 
them.  Carrock  is  but  a trumpery  little  mountain  of  fifteen 
hundred  feet,  and  it  presumes  to  have  false  tops,  and  even 
precipices,  as  if  it  were  Mont  Blanc.  No  matter;  Good- 
child  enjoys  it,  and  will  go  on;  and  Idle,  who  is  afraid  of 
being  left  behind  by  himself,  must  follow.  On  entering 
the  edge  of  the  mist,  the  landlord  stops,  and  says  he  hopes 
that  it  will  not  get  any  thicker.  It  is  twenty  years  since 
he  last  ascended  Carrock,  and  it  is  barely  possible,  if  the 
mist  increases,  that  the  party  may  be  lost  on  the  mountain. 
Goodchild  hears  this  dreadful  intimation,  and  is  not  in  the 
least  impressed  by  it.  He  marches  for  the  top  that  is 
never  to  be  found,  as  if  he  was  the  Wandering  Jew,  bound 


12  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

to  go  on  for  ever,  'in  defiance  of  everything.  The  landlord 
faithfully  accompanies  him.  The  two,  to  the  dim  eye  of 
Idle,  far  below,  look  in  the  exaggerative  mist,  like  a pair 
of  friendly  giants,  mounting  the  steps  of  some  invisible 
castle  together.  Up  and  up,  and  then  down  a little,  and 
then  up,  and  then  along  a strip  of  level  ground,  and  then 
up  again.  The  wind,  a wind  unknown  in  the  happy  vaL 
ley,  blows  keen  and  strong;  the  rain-mist  gets  impenetra- 
ble; a dreary  little  cairn  of  stones  appears.  The  landlord 
adds  one  to  the  heap,  first  walking  all  round  the  cairn  as  if 
he  were  about  to  perform  an  incantation,  then  dropping  the 
stone  on  to  the  top  of  the  heap  with  the  gesture  of  a ma- 
gician adding  an  ingredient  to  a cauldron  in  full  bubble. 
Goodchild  sits  down  by  the  cairn  as  if  it  was  his  study- 
table  at  home;  Idle,  drenched  and  panting,  stands  up  with 
his  back  to  the  wind,  ascertains  distinctly  that  this  is  the 
top  at  last,  looks  round  with  all  the  little  curiosity  that  is 
left  in  him,  and  gets,  in  return,  a magnificent  view  of — 
Nothing ! 

The  effect  of  this  sublime  spectacle  on  the  minds  of  the 
exploring  party  is  a little  injured  by  the  nature  of  the  di- 
rect conclusion  to  which  the  sight  of  it  points — the  said 
conclusion  being  that  the  mountain  mist  has  actually  gath- 
ered round  them,  as  the  landlord  feared  it  would.  It  now 
becomes  imperatively  necessary  to  settle  the  exact  situation 
of  the  farm-house  in  the  valley  at  which  the  dog-cart  has 
been  left,  before  the  travellers  attempt  to  descend.  While 
the  landlord  is  endeavouring  to  make  this  discovery  in  his 
own  way,  Mr.  Goodchild  plunges  his  hand  under  his  wet 
coat,  draws  out  a little  red  morocco-case,  opens  it,  and  dis- 
plays to  the  view  of  his  companions  a neat  pocket-com- 
pass. The  north  is  found,  the  point  at  which  the  farm- 
house is  situated  is  settled,  and  the  descent  begins.  After 
a little  downward  walking.  Idle  (behind  as  usual)  sees  his 
fellow-travellers  turn  aside  sharply — tries  to  follow  them — 
loses  them  in  the  mist — ^is  shouted  after,  waited  for,  recov- 
ered— and  then  finds  that  a halt  has  been  ordered,  partly 
on  his  account,  partly  for  the  purpose  of  again  consulting 
the  compass. 

The  point  in  debate  is  settled  as  before  between  Good- 
child  and  the  landlord,  and  the  expedition  moves  on,  not 
down  the  mountain,  but  marching  straight  forward  round 
the  slope  of  it.  The  difficulty  of  following  this  new  route 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES,  13 

is  acutely  felt  by  Thoiaas  Idle.  He  finds  the  hardship  of 
walking  at  all  greatly  increased  by  the  fatigue  of  moving 
his  feet  straightforward  along  the  side  of  a slope,  when 
their  natural  tendency,  at  every  step,  is  to  turn  off  at  a 
right  angle,  and  go  straight  down  the  declivity.  Let  the 
reader  imagine  himself  to  be  walking  along  the  roof  of  a 
barn,  instead  of  up  or  down  it,  and  he  will  have  an  exact 
idea  of  the  pedestrian  difficulty  in  which  the  travellers  had 
now  involved  themselves.  In  ten  minutes  more  Idle  was 
lost  in  the  distance  again,  was  shouted  for,  waited  for,  re- 
covered as  before;  found  Goodchild  repeating  his  observa- 
tion of  the  compass,  and  remonstrated  warmly  against  the 
sideway  route  that  his  companions  persisted  in  following. 
It  appeared  to  the  uninstructed  mind  of  Thomas  that  when 
three  men  want  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  a mountain,  their 
business  is  to  walk  down  it;  and  he  put  this  view  of  tiie 
case,  not  only  with  emphasis,  but  even  with  some  irritabil- 
ity. He  was  answered  from  the  scientific  eminence  qf  the 
compass  on  which  his  companions  were  mounted,  that  there 
was  a frightful  chasm  somewhere  near  the  foot  of  Carrock 
called  The  Black  Arches,  into  which  the  travellers  were 
sure  to  march  in  the  mist,  if  they  risked  continuing  tlie 
descent  from  the  place  where  they  had  now  halted.  Idle 
received  this  answer  with  the  silent  respect  which  was  due 
to  the  commanders  of  the  expedition,  and  followed  along 
the  roof  of  the  barn,  or  rather  the  side  of  the  mountain,  re- 
tlecting  upon  the  assurance  which  he  received  on  starting 
again,  that  the  object  of  the  party  was  only  to  gain  “ a 
certain  point,”  and,  this  haven  attained,  to  continue  the 
descent  afterwards  until  the  foot  of  Carrock  was  reached, 
i hough  quite  unexceptionable  as  an  abstract  form  of  ex- 
pression the  phrase  “ a certain  point  ” has  the  disadvantage 
) sounding  rather  vaguely  when  it  is  pronounced  on 
inknown  ground,  under  a canopy  of  mist  much  thicker 
Aan  a London  fog.  Nevertheless,  after  the  compass, 

to  hold  by, 

■ould^^^^  ®tung  to  the  extreme  end  of  it  as  hopefully  as  he 

More  sideway  walking,  thicker  and  thicker  mist,  all  sorts 
)t  points  reached  except  the  “certain  point;  ” third  loss  of 
ale,  third  shouts  for  him,  third  recovery  of  him,  third 
consultation  of  compass.  Mr.  Goodchild  draws  it  tenderly 
rom  his  pocket,  and  prepares  to  adjust  it  on  a stone. 


14  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


Something  falls  on  the  turf — it  is  the  glass.  Something 
else  drops  immediately  after — it  is  the  needle.  The  com- 
pass is  broken,  and  the  exploring  party  is  lost! 

It  is  the  practice  of  the  English  portion  of  the  human 
race  to  receive  all  great  disasters  in  dead  silence.  Mr. 
Goodchild  restored  the  useless  compass  to  his  pocket  with- 
out saying  a word,  Mr.  Idle  looked  at  the  landlord,  and 
the  landlord  looked  at  Mr.  Idle.  There  was  nothing  for  it 
now  but  to  go  on  blindfold,  and  trust  to  the  chapter  of 
chances.  Accordingly,  the  lost  travellers  moved  forward, 
still  walking  round  the  slope  of  the  mountain,  still  desper- 
ately resolved  to  avoid  the  Black  Arches,  and  to  succeed  in 
reaching  the  “certain  point.’’ 

A quarter  of  an  hour  brought  them  to  the  brink  of  a 
ravine,  at  the  bottom  of  which  there  flowed  a muddy  little 
stream.  Here  another  halt  was  called,  and  another  con- 
sultation took  place.  The  landlord,  still  clinging  perti- 
naciously to  the  idea  of  reaching  the  “point,”  voted  for 
crossing  the  ravine,  and  going  on  round  the  slope  of  the 
mountain.  Mr.  Goodchild,  to  the  great  relief  of  his  fellow- 
traveller,  took  another  view  of  the  case,  and  backed  Mr. 
Idle’s  proposal  to  descend  Carrock  at  once,  at  any  hazard 
— the  rather  as  the  running  stream  was  a sure  guide  to 
follow  from  the  mountain  to  the  valley.  Accordingly,  the 
party  descended  to  the  rugged  and  stony  banks  of  the 
stream;  and  here  again  Thomas  lost  ground  sadly,  and  fell 
far  behind  his  travelling  companions.  Not  much  more 
than  six  weeks  had  elapsed  since  he  had  sprained  one  of 
his  ankles,  and  he  began  to  feel  this  same  ankle  getting 
rather  weak  when  he  found  himself  among  the  stones  that 
were  strewn  about  the  running  water.  Goodchild  and  the 
landlord  were  getting  farther  and  farther  ahead  of  him. 
He  saw  them  cross  the  stream  and  disappear  round  a pro- 
jection on  its  banks.  He  heard  them  shout  the  moment 
after  as  a signal  that  they  had  halted  and  were  waiting  for 
him.  Answering  the  shout,  he  mended  his  pace,  crossed 
the  stream  where  they  had  crossed  it,  and  was  within  one 
step  of  the  opposite  bank,  when  his  foot  slipped  on  a wet 
stone,  his  weak  ankle  gave  a twist  outwards,  a hot,  rend- 
ing, tearing  pain  ran  through  it  at  the  same  moment,  and 
down  fell  the  idlest  of  the  Two  Idle  Apprentices,  crippled 
in  an  instant. 

The  situation  was  now,  in  plain  terms,  one  of  absolute 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  15 

danger.  There  lay  Mr.  Idle  writhing  with  pain,  there  was 
the  mist  as  thick  as  ever,  there  was  the  landlord  as  com* 
pletely  lost  as  the  strangers  whom  he  was  conducting, 
and  there  was  the  compass  broken  in  Goodchild^s  pocket. 
To  leave  the  wretched  Thomas  on  unknown  ground  was 
plainly  impossible;  and  to  get  him  to  walk  with  a badly 
sprained  ankle  seemed  equally  out  of  the  question.  How- 
ever, Goodchild  (brought  back  by  his  cry  for  help)  bandaged 
the  ankle  with  a pocket-handkerchief,  and  assisted  by  the 
landlord,  raised  the  crippled  Apprentice  to  his  legs,  offered 
him  a shoulder  to  lean  on,  and  exhorted  him  for  the  sake 
of  the  whole  party  to  try  if  he  could  walk.  Thomas,  as- 
sisted by  the  shoulder  on  one  side,  and  a stick  on  the 
other,  did  try,  with  what  pain  and  difficulty  those  only  can 
imagine  who  have  sprained  an  ankle  and  have  had  to  tread 
on  it  afterwards.  At  a pace  adapted  to  the  feeble  hobbling 
of  a newly  lamed  man,  the  lost  party  moved  on,  perfectly 
Ignorant  whether  they  were  on  the  right  side  of  the  moun- 
tain or  the  wrong,  and  equally  uncertain  how  long  Idle 
would  be  able  to  contend  with  the  pain  in  his  ankle,  before 
he  gave  in  altogether  and  fell  down  again,  unable  to  stir 
another  step. 

Slowly  and  more  slowly,  as  the  clog  of  crippled  Thomas 
weighed  heavily  and  more  heavily  on  the  march  of  the  ex- 
pedition, the  lost  travellers  followed  the  windings  of  the 
stream,  till  they  came  to  a faintly  marked  cart-track, 
branching  off  nearly  at  right  angles,  to  the  left.  After  a 
little  consultation  it  was  resolved  to  follow  this  dim  vestige 
0 a road  in  the  hope  that  it  might  lead  to  some  farm  or 
3ottage,  at  which  Idle  could  be  left  in  safety.  It  was  now 
getting  on  towards  the  afternoon,  and  it  was  fast  becoming 
more  than  doubtful  whether  the  party,  delayed  in  their 
propess  as  they  now  were,  might  not  be  overtaken  by  the 
larkness  before  the  right  route  was  found,  and  be  con- 
mmned  to  pass  the  night  on  the  mountain,  without  bit  or 
Irop  to  comfort  them,  in  their  wet  clothes. 

grew  fainter  and  fainter,  until  it  was 
vashed  out  altogether  by  another  little  stream,  dark,  tur- 
lulent,  and  rapid.  The  landlord  suggested,  judging  by  the 
iolour  of  the  water,  that  it  must  be  flowing  from  one  of  the 
CM  mines  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Carrock;  and  the  trav- 
■Hers  accordingly  kept  by  the  stream  for  a little  while,  in 
le  hope  of  possibly  wandering  towards  help  in  that  way 


16  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


After  walking  forward  about  two  hundred  yards,  they  came 
upon  a mine  indeed,  but  a mine  exhausted  and  abandoned; 
a dismal,  ruinous  place,  with  nothing  but  the  wreck  of  its 
works  and  buildings  left  to  speak  for  it.  Here,  there  were 
a few  sheep  feeding.  The  landlord  looked  at  them  ear- 
nestly, thought  he  recognised  the  marks  on  them — then 
thought  he  did  not — finally  gave  up  the  sheep  in  despair — 
aud  walked  on  just  as  ignorant  of  the  whereabouts  of  the 
party  as  ever. 

The  march  in  the  dark,  literally  as  well  as  metaphori- 
cally in  the  dark,  had  now  been  continued  for  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  from  the  time  when  the  crippled  Apprentice  had 
met  with  his  accident.  Mr.  Idle,  with  all  the  will  to  con- 
quer the  pain  in  his  ankle,  and  to  hobble  on,  found  the 
power  rapidly  failing  him,  and  felt  that  another  ten  min- 
utes at  most  would  find  him  at  the  end  of  his  last  physical 
resources.  He  had  just  made  up  his  mind  on  this  point, 
and  was  about  to  communicate  the  dismal  result  of  his  re- 
flections to  his  companions,  when  the  mist  suddenly  bright- 
ened, and  begun  to  lift  straight  ahead.  In  another  minute, 
the  landlord,  who  was  in  advance,  proclaimed  that  he  saw 
a tree.  Before  long,  other  trees  appeared — then  a cottage 
— then  a house  beyond  the  cottage,  and  a familiar  line  of 
road  rising  behind  it.  Last  of  all,  Carrock  itself  loomed 
darkly  into  view,  far  away  to  the  right  hand.  The  party 
had  not  only  got  down  the  mountain  without  knowing  how, 
but  had  wandered  away  from  it  in  the  mist,  without  know- 
ing why — away,  far  down  on  the  very  moor  by  which  they 
had  approached  the  base  of  Carrock  that  morning. 

The  happy  lifting  of  the  mist,  and  the  still  happier  dis- 
covery that  the  travellers  had  groped  their  way,  though  by 
a very  roundabout  direction,  to  within  a mile  or  so  of  the 
part  of  the  valley  in  which  the  farm-house  was  situated, 
restored  Mr.  Idlers  sinking  spirits  and  reanimated  his  fail- 
ing strength.  While  the  landlord  ran  off  to  get  the  dog- 
cart, Thomas  was  assisted  by  Goodchild  to  the  cottage 
which  had  been  the  first  building  seen  when  the  darkness 
brightened,  and  was  propped  up  against  the  garden  wall, 
like  an  artist’s  lay  figure  waiting  to  be  forwarded,  until 
the  dog-cart  should  arrive  from  the  farm-house  below.  lu 
due  time — and  a very  long  time  it  seemed  to  Mr.  Idle — the 
rattle  of  wheels  was  heard,  and  the  crippled  A])prentice 
was  lifted  into  the  seat.  As  the  dog-cart  was  driven  back 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  17 

■ to  the  inu,  the  landlord  related  an  anecdote  which  he  had 
! just  heard  at  the  farm-house,  of  an  unhappy  man  who  had 
i been  lost,  like  his  two  guests  and  himself,  on  Carrock; 
i who  had  passed  the  night  there  alone;  who  had  been  found 
■1  the  next  morning,  “scared  and  starved;  ” and  who  never 

■ went  out  afterwards,  except  on  his  way  to  the  grave.  Mr. 
■*  Idle  heard  this  sad  story,  and  derived  at  least  one  useful 
; impression  from  it.  Bad  as  the  pain  in  his  ankle  was,  he 
.!  contrived  to  ^ bear  it  patiently,  for  he  felt  grateful  that 

a worse  accident  had  not  befallen  him  in  the  wilds  of 
Carrock. 


i 

CHAPTER  II. 

j.  The  dog-cart,  with  Mr.  Thomas  Idle  and  his  ankle  on 
the  hanging  seat  behind,  Mr.  Francis  Goodchild  and  the 
Innkeeper  in  front,  and  the  rain  in  spouts  and  splashes 
[everywhere,  made  the  best  of  its  way  back  to  the  little  inn; 

I the  broken  moor  country  looking  like  miles  upon  miles  of 
Pre-A.damite  sop,  or  the  ruins  of  some  enormous  jorum  of 
antediluvian  toast-and- water.  Tlie  trees  dripped  j the 
eaves  of  the  scattered  cottages  dripped;  the  barren  stone 
walls  dividing  the  land,  dripped;  tlie  yelping  dogs  dripped; 
carts  and  waggons  under  ill-roofed  penthouses,  dripped; 

I melancholy  cocks  and  hens  perching  on  their  shafts,  or 
i seeking  shelter  underneath  them,  dripped;  Mr.  Goodchild 
t dripped;  Thomas  Idle  dripped;  the  Innkeeper  dripped; 
►the  mare  dripped;  the  vast  curtains  of  mist  and  cloud 
cpassed  before  the  shadowy  forms  of  the  hills,  streamed 
f water  as  they  were  drawn  across  the  landscape.  Down 

i. such  steep  pitches  that  the  mare  seemed  to  be  trotting  on 
^ her  head,  and  up  such  steep  pitches  that  she  seemed  to 
I have  a supplementary  leg  in  her  tail,  the  dog-cart  jolted 

ii. and  tilted  back  to  the  village.  It  was  too  wet  for  the 
women  to  look  out,  it  was  too  wet  even  for  the  children  to 

^look  out;  all  the  doors  and  windows  were  closed,  and  the 
, mly  sign  of  life  or  motion  was  in  the  rain-punctured  pud- 
: lies. 

Whiskey  and  oil  to  Thomas  Idle’s  ankle,  and  whiskey 
: without  oil  to  Francis  Goodchild ’s  stomach,  produced  an 
igreeable  change  in  the  systems  of  both;  soothing  Mr. 


18  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

Idle’s  pain,  which  was  sharp  before,  and  sweetening  Mr. 
Goodchild’s  temper,  which  was  sweet  before.  Portman- 
teaus being  then  opened  and  clothes  changed,  Mr.  Good- 
child,  through  having  no  change  of  outer  garments  but 
broadcloth  and  velvet,  suddenly  became  a magnificent  por- 
tent in  the  Innkeeper’s  house,  a shining  frontispiece  to  the 
fashions  for  the  month,  and  a frightful  anomaly  in  the 
Cumberland  village. 

Greatly  ashamed  of  his  splendid  appearance,  the  con- 
scious Goodchild  quenched  it  as  much  as  possible,  in  the 
shadow  of  Thomas  Idle’s  ankle,  and  in  k corner  of  the  lit- 
tle covered  carriage  that  started  with  them  for  Wigton — a 
most  desirable  carriage  for  any  country,  except  for  its  hav- 
ing a flat  roof  and  no  sides;  which  caused  the  plumps  of 
rain  accumulating  on  the  roof  to  play  vigorous  games  of 
bagatelle  into  the  interior  all  the  way,  and  to  score  im- 
mensely. It  was  comfortable  to  see  how  the  people  com- 
ing back  in  open  carts  from  Wigton  market  made  no  more 
of  the  rain  than  if  it  were  sunshine;  how  the  Wigton  po- 
liceman taking  a country  walk  of  half-a-dozen  miles  (ap- 
parently for  pleasure),  in  resplendent  uniform,  accepted 
saturation  as  his  normal  state;  how  clerks  and  schoolmas- 
ters in  black  loitered  along  the  road  without  umbrellas, 
getting  varnished  at  every  step;  how  the  Cumberland  girls, 
coming  out  to  look  after  the  Cumberland  cows,  shook  the 
rain  from  their  eyelashes  and  laughed  it  away;  and  how 
the  rain  continued  to  fall  upon  all,  as  it  only  does  fall  in 
hill  countries. 

Wigton  market  was  over,  and  its  bare  booths  were  smok- 
ing with  rain  all  down  the  street.  Mr.  Thomas  Idle,  melo- 
dramatically carried  to  the  inn’s  first-floor,  and  laid  upon 
three  chairs  (he  should  have  had  the  sofa,  if  there  had 
been  one),  Mr.  Goodchild  went  to  the  window  to  take  an 
observation  of  Wigton,  and  report  what  he  saw  to  his  dis- 
abled companion. 

Brother  Francis,  brother  Francis,”  cried  Thomas  Idle. 
“ What  do  you  see  from  the  turret  ? ” 

^^I  see,”  said  Brother  Francis,  ^^what  I hope  and  believe 
to  be  one  of  the  most  dismal  places  ever  seen  by  eyes.  I 
see  the  houses  with  their  roofs  of  dull  black,  their  stained 
fronts,  and  their  dark-rimmed  windows,  looking  as  if  they 
were  all  in  mourning.  As  every  little  puff  of  wind  comes 
down  the  street,  I see  a perfect  train  of  rain  let  off  along 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  1^ 

the  wooden  stalls  in  the  inarket'place  and  exploded  against 
me.  I see  a very  big  gas  lamp  in  the  centre  which  I know, 
by  a secret  instinct,  will  not  be  lighted  to-night.  I see  a 
pump,  with  a trivet  underneath  its  spout  whereon  to  stand 
the  vessels  that  are  brought  to  be  filled  with  water.  I see 
a man  come  to  pump,  and  he  pumps  very  hard,  but  no  water 
follows,  and  he  strolls  empty  away.’^ 

‘‘Brother  Francis,  brother  Francis,’’  cried  Thomas  Idle, 
“what  more  do  you  see  from  the  turret,  besides  the  man 
and  the  pump,  and  the  trivet  and  the  houses  all  in  mourn- 
ing and  the  rain?  ” 

“I  see,”  said  Brother  Francis,  “one,  two,  three,  four, 
five,  linen-drapers’  shops  in  front  of  me.  I see  a linen- 
draper’s  shop  next  door  to  the  right— and  there  are  five 
more  linen-drapers’  shops  down  the  corner  to  the  left. 
Eleven  homicidal  linen-drapers’  shops  within  a short  stone’s 
throw,  each  with  its  hands  at  the  throats  of  all  the  rest ! 
Over  the  small  first-floor  of  one  of  these  linen-drapers’ 
shops  appears  the  wonderful  inscription,  Bank.” 

“Brother  Francis,  brother  Francis,”  cried  Thomas  Idle, 
“what  more  do  you  see  from  the  turret,  besides  the  eleven 
homicidal  linen-drapers’  shops,  and  the  wonderful  inscrip- 
tion, ‘ Bank’  on  the  small  first-floor,  and  the  man  and  the 
pump  and  the  trivet  and  the  houses  all  in  mourning  and 
the  rain?  ” 

“I  see,”  said  Brother  Francis,  “the  depository  for  Chris- 
tian Knowledge,  and  through  the  dark  vapour  I think  I 
again  make  out  Mr.  Spurgeon  looming  heavily.  Her  Maj- 
esty the  Queen,  God  bless  her,  printed  in  colours,  I am 
sure  I see.  I see  the  Illustrated  London  News  of  several 
years  ago,  and  I see  a sweetmeat  shop — which  the  propri- 
etor calls  a ‘Salt  Warehouse  ’ — with  one  small  female  child 
in  a cotton  bonnet  looking  in  on  tip- toe,  oblivious  of  rain. 
And  I see  a watchmaker’s  with  only  three  great  pale 
watches  of  a dull  metal  hanging  in  his  window,  each  in  a 
separate  pane.” 

“Brother  Francis,  brother  Francis,”  cried  Thomas  Idle, 
“what  more  do  you  see  of  Wigton,  besides  these  objects, 
and  the  man  and  the  pump  and  the  trivet  and  the  houses 
all  in  mourning  and  the  rain?  ” 

“I  see  nothing  more,”  said  Brother  Francis,  “and  there 
is  nothing  more  to  see,  except  the  curlpaper  bill  of  the 
theatre,  which  was  opened  and  shut  last  week  (the  man- 


20  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


ager’s  family  played  all  tlie  parts),  and  the  short,  square, 
chinky  omnibus  that  goes  to  the  railway,  and  leads  too  rat- 
tling a life  over  the  stones  to  hold  together  long.  O yes! 
Now,  I see  two  men  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets  and 
their  backs  towards  me.^^ 

‘‘Brother  Francis,  brother  Francis,”  cried  Thomas  Idle, 
“ what  do  you  make  out  from  the  turret,  of  the  expression 
of  the  two  men  with  their  hands  in  their  pockets  and  their 
backs  towards  you?  ” 

“They  are  mysterious  men,”  said  Brother  Francis,  “with 
inscrutable  backs.  They  keep  their  backs  towards  me  with 
persistency.  If  one  turns  an  inch  in  any  direction,  the 
other  turns  an  inch  in  the  same  direction,  and  no  more. 
They  turn  very  stiffly,  on  a very  little  pivot,  in  the  middle 
of  the  market-place.  Their  appearance  is  partly  of  a min- 
ing, partly  of  a ploughing,  partly  of  a stable,  character. 
They  are  looking  at  nothing — very  hard.  Their  backs  are 
slouched,  and  their  legs  are  curved  with  much  standing 
about.  Their  pockets  are  loose  and  dog’s-eared,  on  account 
of  their  hands  being  always  in  them.  They  stand  to  be 
rained  upon,  without  any  movement  of  impatience  or  dis- 
satisfaction, and  they  keep  so  close  together  that  an  elbow 
of  each  jostles  an  elbow  of  the  other,  but  they  never  speak. 
They  spit  at  times,  but  speak  not.  I see  it  growing  darker 
and  darker,  and  still  I see  them,  sole  visible  population  of 
the  place,  standing  to  be  rained  upon  with  their  backs  tow- 
ards me,  and  looking  at  nothing  very  hard.” 

“Brother  Francis,  brother  Francis,”  cried  Thomas  Idle, 
“ before  you  draw  down  the  blind  of  the  turret  and  come  in 
to  have  your  head  scorched  by  the  hot  gas,  see  if  you  can, 
and  impart  to  me,  something  of  the  expression  of  those  two 
amazing  men.” 

“The  murky  shadows,”  said  Francis  Goodchild,  “are 
gathering  fast;  and  the  wings  of  evening,  and  the  wings 
of  coal,  are  folding  over  Wigton.  Still,  they  look  at  noth- 
ing very  hard,  with  their  backs  towards  me.  Ah!  Now, 
they  turn,  and  I see ” 

“Brother  Francis,  brother  Francis,”  cried  Thomas  Idle, 
“ tell  me  quickly  what  you  see  of  the  two  men  of  Wigton  ! ” 

“I  see,”  said  Francis  Goodchild,  “that  they  have  no  ex- 
pression at  all.  And  now  the  town  goes  to  sleep,  undaz- 
zled by  the  large  unlighted  lamp  in  the  market-place;  and 
let  no  man  wake  it.” 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  21 


At  the  close  of  the  next  day’s  journey,  Mr.  Thomas 
Idle’s  ankle  became  much  swollen  and  inflamed.  There 
are  reasons  which  will  presently  explain  themselves  for  not 
publicly  indicating  the  exact  direction  in  which  that  jour- 
ney lay,  or  the  place  in  which  it  ended.  It  was  a long 
day’s  shaking  of  Thomas  Idle  over  the  rough  roads,  and  a 
long  day’s  getting  out  and  going  on  before  the  horses,  and 
fagging  up  hills,  and  scouring  down  hills,  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Goodchild,  who  in  the  fatigues  of  such  labours  con- 
gratulated himself  on  attaining  a high  point  of  idleness. 
It  was  at  a little  town,  still  in  Cumberland,  that  they 
halted  for  the  night — a very  little  town,  with  the  purple 
and  brown  moor  close  upon  its  one  street;  a curious  little 
ancient  market-cross  set  up  in  the  midst  of  it;  and  the 
town  itself  looking  much  as  if  it  were  a collection  of  great 
stones  piled  on  end  by  the  Druids  long  ago,  which  a few 
recluse  people  had  since  hollowed  out  for  habitations. 

^^Is  there  a doctor  here?”  asked  Mr.  Goodchild,  on  his 
knee,  of  the  motherly  landlady  of  the  little  Inn:  stopping 
in  his  examination  of  Mr.  Idle’s  ankle,  with  the  aid  of  a 
candle. 

''  Ey,  my  word ! ” said  the  landlady,  glancing  doubtfully 
at  the  ankle  for  herself;  there’s  Doctor  Speddie.” 

‘‘Is  he  a good  Doctor? ” 

“Ey!”  said  the  landlady,  “I  ca’  him  so.  A’  cooms 
either  nae  doctor  that  I ken.  Mair  nor  which,  a’s  just  the 
doctor  heer.” 

“Do  you  think  he  is  at  home?  ” 

Her  reply  was,  “Gang  awa’,  Jock,  and  bring  him.” 

Jock,  a white-headed  boy,  who,  under  pretence  of  stir- 
ring up  some  bay  salt  in  a basin  of  water  for  the  laving  of 
this  unfortunate  ankle,  had  greatly  enjoyed  himself  for  the 
last  ten  minutes  in  splashing  the  carpet,  set  off  promptly. 
A very  few  minutes  had  elapsed  when  he  showed  the  Doc- 
tor in,  by  tumbling  against  the  door  before  him  and  burst- 
ing it  open  with  his  head. 

“Gently,  Jock,  gently,”  said  the  Doctor  as  he  advanced 
with  a quiet  step.  “ Gentlemen,  a good  evening.  I am 
sorry  that  my  pesence  is  required  here.  A slight  accident, 

I hope?  A slip  and  a fall?  Yes,  yes,  yes.  Carrock,  in- 
deed? Hah!  Does  that  pain  you,  sir?  No  doubt,  it  does. 
It  is  the  great  connecting  ligament  here,  you  see,  that  has 
bec'ii  badly  strained.  Time  and  rest,  sir!  They  are  often 


22  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


the  recipe  in  greater  cases,”  with  a slight  sigh,  ‘‘and  often 
the  recipe  in  small.  I can  send  a lotion  to  relieve  you,  but 
we  must  leave  the  cure  to  time  and  rest.” 

This  he  said,  holding  Idle’s  foot  on  his  knee  between  his 
two  hands,  as  he  sat  over  against  him.  He  had  touched  it 
tenderly  and  skilfully  in  explanation  of  what  he  said,  and, 
when  his  careful  examination  was  completed,  softly  re- 
turned it  to  its  former  horizontal  position  on  a chair. 

He  spoke  with  a little  irresolution  whenever  he  began, 
but  afterwards  fluently.  He  was  a tall,  thin,  large-boned, 
old  gentleman,  with  an  appearance  at  first  sight  of  being 
hard-featured;  but,  at  a second  glance,  the  mild  expression 
of  his  face  and  some  particular  touches  of  sweetness  and 
patience  about  his  mouth  corrected  this  impression  and  as- 
signed his  long  professional  rides,  by  day  and  night,  in  the 
bleak  hill- weather,  as  the  true  cause  of  that  appearance. 
He  stooped  very  little,  though  past  seventy  and  very  grey. 
His  dress  was  more  like  that  of  a clergyman  than  a coun- 
try doctor,  being  a plain  black  suit,  and  a plain  white 
neck-kerchief  tied  behind  like  a band.  His  black  was  the 
worse  for  wear,  and  there  were  darns  in  his  coat,  and  his 
linen  was  a little  frayed  at  the  hems  and  edges.  He  might 
have  been  poor — it  was  likely  enough  in  that  out-of-the- 
way  spot — or  he  might  have  been  a little  self-forgetful  and 
eccentric.  Any  one  could  have  seen  directly,  that  he  had 
neither  wife  nor  child  at  home.  He  had  a scholarly  air 
with  him,  and  that  kind  of  considerate  humanity  towards 
others  which  claimed  a gentle  consideration  for  himself. 
Mr.  Goodchild  made  this  study  of  him  while  he  was  ex- 
amining the  limb,  and  as  he  laid  it  down.  Mr.  Goodchild 
wishes  to  add  that  he  considers  it  a very  good  likeness. 

It  came  out  in  the  course  of  a little  conversation,  that 
Doctor  Speddie  was  acquainted  with  some  friends  of 
Thomas  Idle’s,  and  had,  when  a young  man,  passed  some 
years  in  Thomas  Idle’s  birthplace  on  the  other  side  of  Eng- 
land. Certain  idle  labours,  the  fruit  of  Mr.  Goodchild’s 
apprenticeship,  also  happened  to  be  well  known  to  him. 
The  lazy  travellers  were  thus  placed  on  a more  intimate 
footing  with  the  Doctor  than  the  casual  circumstances  of 
the  meeting  would  of  themselves  have  established;  aiul 
when  Doctor  Speddie  rose  to  go  home,  remarking  that  he 
would  send  his  assistant  with  the  lotion,  Francis  Goodchild 
said  that  was  unnecessary,  for,  by  the  Doctor’s  leave,  he 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  23 

would  accompany  him,  and  bring  it  back.  (Having  done 
nothing  to  fatigue  himself  for  a full  quarter  of  an  hour, 
Francis  began  to  fear  that  he  was  not  in  a state  of  idle- 
ness.) 

Doctor  Speddie  politely  assented  to  the  proposition  of 
Francis  Goodchild,  as  it  would  give  him  the  pleasure  of 
^ more  minutes  of  Mr.  Goodchild’ s society 
than  he  could  otherwise  have  hoped  for,”  and  they  went 
out  together  into  the  village  street.  The  rain  had  nearly 
ceased,  the  clouds  had  broken  before  a cool  wind  from 
the  north-east,  and  stars  were  shining  from  the  peaceful 
heights  beyond  them. 

Doctor  Speddie ’s  house  was  the  last  house  in  the  place. 
Beyond  it,  lay  the  moor,  all  dark  and  lonesome.  The 
wind  moaned  in  a low,  dull,  shivering  manner  round  the 
little  garden,  like  a houseless  creature  that  knew  the  win- 
ter was  coming.  It  was  exceedingly  wild  and  solitary. 

Boses,”  said  the  Doctor,  when  Goodchild  touched  some 
wet  leaves  overhanging  the  stone  porch;  ‘^but  they  get  cut 
to  pieces.” 

The  Doctor  opened  the  door  with  a key  he  carried,  and 
led  the  way  into  a low  but  pretty  ample  hall  with  rooms 
on  either  side.  The  door  of  one  of  these  stood  open,  and 
the  Doctor  entered  it,  with  a word  of  welcome  to  his  guest. 
It,  too,  was  a low  room,  half  surgery  and  half  parlour, 
with  shelves  of  books  and  bottles  against  the  walls,  which 
were  of  a very  dark  hue.  There  was  a fire  in  the  grate, 
the  night  being  damp  and  chill.  Leaning  against  the  chim- 
aey-piece  looking  down  into  it,  stood  the  Doctor’s  Assist- 
ant. 

A man  of  a most  remarkable  appearance.  Much  older 
than  Mr.  Goodchild  had  expected,  for  he  was  at  least  two- 
and-fifty;  but,  that  was  nothing.  What  was  startling  in 
lim  was  his  remarkable  paleness.  His  large  black  eyes, 
lis  sunken  cheeks,  his  long  and  heavy  iron-grey  hair,  his 
vasted  hands,  and  even  the  attenuation  of  his  figure,  were 
it  first  forgotten  in  his  extraordinary  pallor.  Tliere  was 
m vestige  of  colour  in  the  man.  When  he  turned  his  face, 
:*rancis  Goodchild  started  as  if  a stone  figure  had  looked 
•ound  at  him. 

''Mr.  Lorn,”  said  the  Doctor.  ‘'Mr.  Goodchild.” 

The  Assistant,  in  a distraught  way — as  if  he  had  forgot- 
-en  something — as  if  he  had  forgotten  everything,  even  to 


24  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

his  own  name  and  himself — acknowledged  the  visitor’s 
presence,  and  stepped  further  back  into  the  shadow  of  the 
wall  behind  him.  But,  he  was  so  pale  that  his  face  stood 
out  in  relief  against  the  dark  wall,  and  really  could  not  be 
hidden  so. 

“Mr.  Goodchild’s  friend  has  met  with  an  accident. 
Lorn,”  said  Doctor  Speddie.  “We  want  the  lotion  for  a 
bad  sprain.” 

A pause. 

“ My  dear  fellow,  you  are  more  than  usually  absent  to- 
night. The  lotion  for  a bad  sprain.” 

“Ah!  yes!  Directly.” 

He  was  evidently  relieved  to  turn  away,  and  to  take  his 
white  face  and  his  wild  eyes  to  a table  in  a recess  among 
the  bottles.  But,  though  he  stood  there,  compounding  the 
lotion  with  his  back  towards  them,  Goodchild  could  not, 
for  many  moments,  withdraw  his  gaze  from  the  man. 
When  he  at  length  did  so,  he  found  the  Doctor  observing 
him,  with  some  trouble  in  his  face.  “He  is  absent,”  ex- 
plained the  Doctor,'  in  a low  voice.  “Always  absent. 
Very  absent.” 

“ Is  he  ill?  ” 

“No,  not  ill.” 

“ Unhappy?  ” 

“I  have  my  suspicions  that  he  was,”  assented  the  Doc- 
tor, “once.” 

Francis  Goodchild  could  not  but  observe  that  the  Doctor 
accompanied  these  words  with  a benignant  and  protecting 
glance  at  their  subject,  in  which  there  was  much  of  the  ex- 
pression with  which  an  attached  father  might  have  looked 
at  a heavily  afflicted  son.  Yet,  that  they  were  not 
father  and  son  must  have  been  plain  to  most  eyes.  The 
Assistant,  on  the  other  hand,  turning  presently  to  ask 
the  Doctor  some  question,  looked  at  him  with  a wan 
smile  as  if  he  were  his  whole  reliance  and  sustainment  in 
life. 

It  was  in  vain  for  the  Doctor  in  his  easy-chair,  to  try  to 
lead  the  mind  of  Mr.  Goodchild  in  the  opposite  easy-chair, 
away  from  what  was  before  him.  Let  Mr.  Goodchild  do 
what  he  would  to  follow  the  Doctor,  his  eyes  and  thoughts 
reverted  to  the  Assistant.  The  Doctor  soon  perceived  it, 
and,  after  falling  silent,  and  musing  in  a little  perplexity, 
said: 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  25 


'^Lorn!’^ 

dear  Doctor.” 

''  Would  you  go  to  the  Inn,  and  apply  that  lotion?  You 
will  show  the  best  way  of  applying  it,  far  better  than  Mr. 
Goodchild  can.” 

With  pleasure.” 

The  Assistant  took  his  hat,  and  passed  like  a shadow  to 
the  door. 

Lorn ! ” said  the  Doctor,  calling  after  him. 

He  returned. 

^^Mr.  Goodchild  will  keep  me  company  till  you  come 
home.  Don’t  hurry.  Excuse  my  calling  you  back.” 

^Ht  is  not,”  said  the  Assistant,  with  his  former  smile, 
‘^the  first  time  you  have  called  me  back,  dear  Doctor.” 
With  those  words  he  went  away. 

^^Mr.  Goodchild,”  said  Doctor  Speddie,  in  a low  voice, 
and  with  his  former  troubled  expression  of  face,  have 
seen  that  your  attention  has  been  concentrated  on  mv 
friend.” 

“He  fascinates  me.  I must  apologise  to  you,  but  he  has 
quite  bewildered  and  mastered  me.” 

“I  find  that  a lonely  existence  and  a long  secret,”  said 
the  Doctor,  drawing  his  chair  a little  nearer  to  Mr.  Good- 
child’s,  “become  in  the  course  of  time  very  heavy.  I will 
tell  you  something.  You  may  make  what  use  you  will  of 
it,  under  fictitious  names.  I know  I may  trust  you.  I am 
the  more  inclined  to  confidence  to-night,  through  having 
been  unexpectedly  led  back,  by  the  current  of  our  conversa- 
tion at  the  Inn,  to  scenes  in  my  early  life.  Will  you  please 
to  draw  a little  nearer?  ” 

Mr.  Goodchild  drew  a little  nearer,  and  the  Doctor  went 
on  thus : speaking,  for  the  most  part,  in  so  cautious  a voice, 
that  the  wind,  though  it  was  far  from  high,  occasionally 
got  the  better  of  him. 

When  this  present  nineteenth  century  was  younger  by  a 
good  many  years  than  it  is  now,  a certain  friend  of  mine, 
named  Arthur  Holliday,  happened  to  arrive  in  the  town  of 
Doncaster,  exactly  in  the  middle  of  a race- week,  or,  in 
3ther  words,  in  the  middle  of  the  month  of  September. 
He  was  one  of  those  reckless,  rattle-pated,  open-hearted, 
and  open-mouthed  young  gentlemen,  who  possess  the  gift 
of  familiarity  in  its  highest  perfection,  and  who  scramble 


26  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

carelessly  along  the  journey  of  life  making  friends,  as  the 
phrase  is,  wherever  they  go.  His  father  was  a rich  manu- 
facturer, and  had  bought  landed  property  enough  in  one  of 
the  midland  counties  to  make  all  the  born  squires  in  his 
neighbourhood  thoroughly  envious  of  him.  Arthur  was  his 
only  son,  possessor  in  prospect  of  the  great  estate  and  the 
great  business  after  his  father’s  death;  well  supplied  with 
moirey,  and  not  too  rigidly  looked  after,  during  his  father’s 
lifetime.  Report,  or  scandal,  whichever  you  please,  said 
that  the  old  gentleman  had  been  rather  wild  in  his  youth- 
ful days,  and  that,  unlike  most  parents,  he  was  not  disposed 
to  be  violently  indignant  when  he  found  that  his  son  took 
after  him.  This  may  be  true  or  not.  I myself  only  knew 
the  elder  Mr.  Holliday  when  he  was  getting  on  in  years; 
and  then  he  was  as  quiet  and  as  respectable  a gentleman  as 
ever  I met  with. 

Well,  one  September,  as  1 told  you,  young  Arthur  comes 
to  Doncaster,  having  decided  all  of  a sudden,  in  his  hare- 
brained way,  that  he  would  go  to  the  races.  He  did  not 
reach  the  town  till  towards  the  close  of  the  evening,  and  he 
went  at  once  to  see  about  his  dinner  and  bed  at  the  princi- 
pal hotel.  Dinner  they  were  ready  enough  to  give  him; 
but  as  for  a bed,  they  laughed  when  he  mentioned  it.  In 
the  race-week  at  Doncaster,  it  is  no  uncommon  thing  for 
visitors  who  have  not  bespoken  apartments,  to  pass  the 
night  in  their  carriages  at  the  inn  doors.  As  for  the  lower 
sort  of  strangers,  I myself  have  often  seen  them,  at  that 
full  time,  sleeping  out  on  the  doorsteps  for  want  of  a cov- 
ered place  to  creep  under.  Rich  as  he  was,  Arthur’s 
chance  of  getting  a night’s  lodging  (seeing  that  he  had  not 
written  beforehand  to  secure  one)  was  more  than  doubtful. 
He  tried  the  second  hotel,  and  the  third  hotel,  and  two  of 
the  inferior  inns  after  that;  and  was  met  everywhere  by 
the  same  form  of  answer.  No  accommodation  for  the  night 
of  any  sort  was  left.  All  the  bright  golden  sovereigns  in 
his  pocket  would  not  buy  him  a bed  at  Doncaster  in  the 
race- week. 

To  a young  fellow  of  Arthur’s  temperament,  tlie  novelty 
of  being  turned  away  into  the  street,  like  a penniless  vaga- 
bond, at  every  house  where  he  asked  for  a lodging,  pre- 
sented itself  in  the  light  of  a new  and  highly  amusing 
piece  of  experience.  He  went  on,  with  his  c:\rp(‘t-bag  in 
his  hand,  applying  for  a bed  at  every  place  of  entertain- 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  27 


ment  for  travellers  that  he  could  find  in  Doncaster,  until 
he  wandered  into  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  By  this  time, 
the  last  glimmer  of  twilight  had  faded  out,  the  moon  was 
rising  dimly  in  a mist,  the  wind  was  getting  cold,  the 
clouds  were  gathering  heavily,  and  there  was  every  pros- 
pect that  it  was  soon  going  to  rain. 

The  look  of  the  night  had  rather  a lowering  effect  on 
young  Holliday’s  good  spirits.  He  began  to  contemplate 
the  houseless  situation  in  which  he  was  placed,  from  the 
serious  rather  than  the  humorous  point  of  view;  and  he 
looked  about  him,  for  another  public-house  to  inquire  at, 
with  something  very  like  downright  anxiety  in  his  mind  on 
the  subject  of  a lodging  for  the  night.  The  suburban  part 
of  the  town  towards  which  he  had  now  strayed  was  hardly 
lighted  at  all,  and  he  could  see  nothing  of  the  houses  as  he 
passed  them,  except  that  they  got  progressively  smaller 
and  dirtier,  the  farther  he  went.  Down  the  winding  road 
before  him  shone  the  dull  gleam  of  an  oil  lamp,  the  one 
faint,  lonely  light  that  struggled  ineffectually  with  the 
foggy  darkness  all  round  him.  He  resolved  to  goon  as 
far  as  this  lamp,  and  then,  if  it  showed  him  nothing  in  the 
shape  of  an  Inn,  to  return  to  the  central  part  of  the  town 
and  to  try  if  he  could  not  at  least  secure  a chair  to  sit  down 
on,  through  the  night,  at  one  of  the  principal  Hotels. 

As  he  got  near  the  lamp,  he  heard  voices;  and,  walking 
I close  under  it,  found  that  it  lighted  the  entrance  to  a nar- 
row court,  on  the  wall  of  which  was  painted  a long  hand  in 
faded  flesh-colour,  pointing  with  a lean  fore-finger,  to  this 
inscription : — 

THE  TWO  ROBINS. 

Arthur  turned  into  the  court  without  hesitation,  to  see 
what  The  Two  Robins  could  do  for  him.  Four  or  five  men 
were  standing  together  round  the  door  of  the  house  which 
was  at  the  bottom  of  the  court,  facing  the  entrance  from 
the  street.  The  men  were  all  listening  to  one  other  man, 
better  dressed  than  the  rest,  who  was  telling  his  audience 
something,  in  a low  voice,  in  which  they  were  apparently 
very  much  interested. 

On  entering  the  passage,  Arthur  was  passed  by  a 
stranger  with  a knapsack  in  his  hand,  who  was  evidently 
leaving  the  house. 

^^No,’’  said  the  traveller  with  the  knapsack,  turning 


28  THE  LAZY  TOUU  OP  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


round  ami  addressing  himself  cheerfully  to  a fat,  sly-look- 
ing,  bald-headed  man,  with  a dirty  white  apron  on,  who 
had  followed  him  down  the  passage.  No,  Mr.  Landlord,  I 
am  not  easily  scared  by  trifles;  but,  I don’t  mind  confess- 
ing that  1 (nui’t  quite  stand 

It  occui‘]*ed  to  young  Holliday,  the  moment  he  heard  these 
words,  that  the  stranger  had  been  asked  an  exorbitant  price 
for  a bed  at  The  Two  Eobins;  and  that  he  was  unable  or 
unwilling  to  pay  it.  The  moment  his  back  was  turned, 
Arthur,  comfortably  conscious  of  his  own  well-filled  pock- 
ets, addressed  himself  in  a great  hurry,  for  fear  any  other 
benighted  traveller  should  slip  in  and  forestall  him,  to  the 
sly-looking  landlord  with  the  dirty  apron  and  the  bald 
head. 

^Hf  you  have  got  a bed  to  let,”  he  said,  ^‘and  if  that 
gentleman  who  has  just  gone  out  won’t  pay  your  price  for 
it,  I will.” 

The  sly  landlord  looked  hard  at  Arthur. 

^^Will  you,  sir?”  he  asked,  in  a meditative,  doubtful 
way. 

^^Name  your  price,”  said  young  Holliday,  thinking  that 
the  landlord’s  hesitation  sprang  from  some  boorish  distrust 
of  him.  ‘^Name  your  price,  and  I’ll  give  you  the  money 
at  once  if  you  like.” 

Are  you  game  for  five  shillings?”  inquired  the  land- 
lord, rubbing  his  stubbly  double  chin,  and  looking  up 
thoughtfully  at  the  ceiling  above  him. 

Arthur  nearly  laughed  in  the  man’s  face;  but  thinking 
it  prudent  to  control  himself,  offered  the  five  shillings  as 
seriously  as  he  could.  The  sly  landlord  held  out  his  hand, 
then  suddenly  drew  it  back  again. 

You’re  acting  all  fair  and  above-board  by  me,”  he  said : 
^‘and,  before  I take  your  money.  I’ll  do  the  same  by  you. 
Look  here,  this  is  how  it  stands.  You  can  have  a bed  all 
to  yourself  for  five  shillings;  but  you  can’t  have  more  than 
a half-share  of  the  room  it  stands  in.  Do  you  see  what  I 
mean,  young  gentleman?  ” 

‘^Of  course  I do,”  returned  Arthur,  a little  irritably. 

You  mean  that  it  is  a double-bedded  room,  and  that  one 
of  the  beds  is  occupied?  ” 

The  landlord  nodded  his  head,  and  rubbed  his  double 
chin  harder  than  ever.  Arthur  hesitated,  and  mechanically 
moved  back  a step  or  two  towards  the  door.  The  idea  of 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  29 


sleeping  in  the  same  room  with  a total  stranger,  did  not 
present  an  attractive  prospect  to  him.  He  felt  more  than 
half-inclined  to  drop  his  five  shillings  into  his  pocket,  and 
to  go  out  into  the  street  once  more. 

“Is  it  yes,  or  no?  ''  asked  the  landlord.  “Settle  it  as 
quick  as  you  can,  because  there’s  lots  of  people  wanting  a 
bed  at  Doncaster  to-night,  besides  you.” 

Arthur  looked  towards  the  court,  and  heard  the  rain  fall- 
ing heavily  in  the  street  outside.  He  thought  he  would 
ask  a question  or  two  before  he  rashly  decided  on  leaving 
the  shelter  of  The  Two  Robins. 

“What  sort  of  a man  is  it  who  has  got  the  other  bed?  ” 
he  inquired,  “Is  he  a gentleman?  I mean,  is  he  a quiet, 
well-behaved  person?  ” 

“The  quietest  man  I ever  came  across,”  said  the  land- 
lord, rubbing  his  fat  hands  stealthily  one  over  the  other. 
“As  sober  as  a judge,  and  as  regular  as  clock-work  in  his 
habits.  It  hasn’t  struck  nine,  not  ten  minutes  ago,  and 
he’s  in  his  bed  already.  I don’t  know  whether  that  comes 
up  to  your  notion  of  a quiet  man : it  goes  a long  way  ahead 
of  mine,  I can  tell  you.” 

“ Is  he  asleep,  do  you  think?  ” asked  Arthur. 

“I  know  he’s  asleep,”  returned  the  landlord.  “And 
what’s  more,  he’s  gone  off  so  fast,  that  I’ll  warrant  you 
don’t  wake  him.  This  way,  sir,”  said  the  landlord,  speak- 
ing over  young  Holliday’s  shoulder,  as  if  he  was  address- 
ing some  new  guest  who  was  approaching  the  house. 

“Here  you  are,”  said  Arthur,  determined  to  be  before- 
hand with  the  stranger,  whoever  he  might  be.  “I’ll  take 
the  bed.”  And  he  handed  the  five  shillings  to  the  land- 
lord, who  nodded,  dropped  the  money  carelessly  into  his 
waistcoat-pocket,  and  lighted  the  candle. 

“Come  up  and  see  the  room,”  said  the  host  of  The  Two 
Robins,  leading  the  way  to  the  staircase  quite  briskly,  con- 
sidering how  fat  he  was. 

They  mounted  to  the  second-floor  of  the  house.  The 
landlord  half  opened  a door,  fronting  the  landing,  then 
stopped,  and  thrned  round  to  Arthur. 

“It’s  a fair  bargain,  mind,  on  my  side  as  well  as  on 
yours,”  he  said.  “You  give  me  five  shillings,  I give  you 
in  return  a clean,  comfortable  bed;  and  I warrant,  before- 
hand,  that  you  won’t  be  interfered  with,  or  annoyed  in  any 
by  the  man  who  sleeps  in  the  same  room  as  you.” 


30  THE  LAZY  TOUH  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  | 

1 

Saying  those  words,  he  looked  hard,  for  a moment,  in  young  I 
Holliday’s  face,  and  then  led  the  way  into  the  room.  ^ | 
It  was  larger  and  cleaner  than  Arthur  had  expected  it  ' 
would  be.  The  two  beds  stood  parallel  with  each  other—  : 
a space  of  about  six  feet  intervening  between  them.  They  j 
were  both  of  the  same  medium  size,  and  both  had  the  same  i 
plain  white  curtains,  made  to  draw,  if  necessary,  all  round  I 
them.  The  occupied  bed  was  the  bed  nearest  the  window. 
The  curtains  were  all  drawn  round  this,  except  the  half 
curtain  at  the  bottom,  on  the  side  of  the  bed  farthest  from 
the  window.  Arthur  saw  the  feet  of  the  sleeping  man  > 
raising  the  scanty  clothes  into  a sharp  little  eminence,  as  i 
if  he  was  lying  flat  on  his  back.  He  took  the  candle,  and 
advanced  softly  to  draw  the  curtain — stopped  half  way,  i 
and  listened  for  a moment — then  turned  to  the  landlord. 
‘^He’s  a very  quiet  sleeper,”  said  Arthur. 

Yes,”  said  the  landlord,  ‘‘  very  quiet.”  I 

Young  Holliday  advanced  with  the  candle,  and  looked  | 
in  at  the  man  cautiously. 

‘‘  How  pale  he  is ! ” said  Arthur. 

''Yes,”  returned  the  landlord,  "pale  enough,  isn’t  he?” 
Arthur  looked  closer  at  the  man.  The  bed-clothes  were 
drawn  up  to  his  chin,  and  they  lay  perfectly  still  over  the 
region  of  his  chest.  Surprised  and  vaguely  startled,  as  he 
noticed  this,  Arthur  stooped  down  closer  over  the  stranger; 
looked  at  his  ashy,  parted  lips;  listened  breathlessly  for  an 
instant;  looked  again  at  the  strangely  still  face,  and  thel 
motionless  lips  and  chest;  and  turned  round  suddenly  onj 
the  landlord,  with  his  own  cheeks  as  pale  for  the  moment 
as  the  hollow  cheeks  of  the  man  on  the  bed. 

"Come  here,”  he  whispered,  under  his  breath.  "Come 
here,  for  God’s  sake ! The  man’s  not  asleep— he  is  dead ! ” 
" You  have  found  that  out  sooner  than  I thought  you 
would,”  said  the  landlord  composedly.  "Yes,  he’s  dead, 
sure  enough.  He  died  at  five  o’clock  to-day.” 

"How  did  he  die?  Who  is  he?”  asked  Arthur,  stag-! 
gered,  for  a moment,  by  the  audacious  coolness  of  the  an- 
swer. 

" As  to  who  is  he,”  rejoined  the  landlord,  I know  no 
more  about  him  than  you  do.  There  are  his  books  and  let- 
ters and  things,  all  sealed  up  in  that  brown-paper  parcel, 
for  the  Coroner’s  inquest  to  open  to-morrow  or  next  day. 
He’s  been  here  a week,  paying  his  way  fairly  enough,  and 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  31 


stopping  in-doors,  for  the  most  part,  as  if  he  was  ailing. 
My  girl  brought  him  up  his  tea  at  five  to-day;  and  as  he 
was  pouring  of  it  out,  he  fell  down  in  a faint,  or  a fit,  or  a 
compound  of  both,  for  anything  I know.  We  could  not 
bring  him  to — and  I said  he  was  dead.  And  the  doctor 
couldn’t  bring  him  to — and  the  doctor  said  he  was  dead. 
And  there  he  is.  And  the  Coroner’s  inquest’s  coming  as 
soon  as  it  can.  And  that’s  as  much  as  I know  about  it.” 

Arthur  held  the  candle  close  to  the  man’s  lips.  The 
flame  still  burnt  straight  up,  as  steadily  as  before.  There 
was  a moment  of  silence;  and  the  rain  pattered  drearily 
through  it  against  the  panes  of  the  window. 

If  you  haven’t  got  nothing  more  to  say  to  me,”  continued 
the  landlord,  “I  suppose  I may  go.  You  don’t  expect 
your  five  shillings  back,  do  you?  There’s  the  bed  I prom- 
ised you,  clean  and  comfortable.  There’s  the  man  I war- 
ranted not  to  disturb  you,  quiet  in  this  world  for  ever.  If 
you’re  frightened  to  stop  alone  with  him,  that’s  not  my 
look-out.  I’ve  kept  my  part  of  the  bargain,  and  I mean  to 
keep  the  money.  I’m  not  Yorkshire,  myself,  young  gen- 
tleman; but  I’ve  lived  long  enough  in  these  parts  to  have 
my  wits  sharpened;  and  I shouldn’t  wonder  if  you  found 
out  the  way  to  brighten  up  yours,  next  time  you  come 
amongst  us.”  With  these  words,  the  landlord  turned 
towards  the  door,  and  laughed  to  himself  softly,  in  high 
satisfaction  at  his  own  sharpness. 

Startled  and  shocked  as  he  was,  Arthur  had  by  this  time 
sufficiently  recovered  himself  to  feel  indignant  at  the  trick 
that  had  been  played  on  him,  and  at  the  insolent  manner 
in  which  the  landlord  exulted  in  it. 

‘‘Don’t  laugh,”  he  said  sharply,  “till  you  are  quite  sure 
you  have  got  the  laugh  against  me.  You  shan’t  have 
the  five  shillings  for  nothing,  my  man.  I’ll  keep  the 
bed.” 

“Will  you?”  said  the  landlord.  “Then  I wish  you  a 
good  night’s  rest.”  With  that  brief  farewell,  he  went  out, 
and  shut  the  door  after  him. 

A good  night’s  rest ! The  words  had  hardly  been  spoken, 
the  door  had  hardly  been  closed,  before  Arthur  half  re- 
pented the  hasty  words  that  had  just  escaped  him.  Though 
not  naturally  over-sensitive,  and  not  wanting  in  courage  of 
the  moral  as  well  as  the  physical  sort,  the  presence  of  the 
dead  man  had  an  instantaneously  chilling  effect  on  his 


32  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


mind  when  he  found  himself  alone  in  the  room — alone,  and 
bound  by  his  own  rash  words  to  stay  there  till  the  next 
morning.  An  older  man  would  have  thought  nothing  of 
those  words,  and  would  have  acted,  without  reference  to 
them,  as  his  calmer  sense  suggested.  But  Arthur  was  too 
young  to  treat  the  ridicule,  even  of  his  inferiors,  with  con- 
tempt— too  young  not  to  fear  the  momentary  humiliation 
of  falsifying  his  own  foolish  boast,  more  than  he  feared  the 
trial  of  watching  out  the  long  night  in  the  same  chamber 
with  the  dead. 

^^It  is  but  a few  hours, he  thought  to  himself,  ^^and  I 
can  get  away  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.’’ 

He  was  looking  towards  the  occupied  bed  as  that  idea 
passed  through  his  mind,  and  the  sharp  angular  eminence 
made  in  the  clothes  by  the  dead  man’s  upturned  feet  again 
caught  his  eye.  He  advanced  and  drew  the  curtains,  pur- 
posely abstaining,  as  he  did  so,  from  looking  at  the  face  of 
the  corpse,  lest  he  might  unnerve  himself  at  the  outset  by 
fastening  some  ghastly  impression  of  it  on  his  mind.  He 
drew  the  curtain  very  gently,  and  sighed  involuntarily  as 
he  closed  it.  ^^Poor  fellow,”  he  said,  almost  as  sadly  as  if 
he  had  known  the  man.  Ah,  poor  fellow ! ” 

He  went  next  to  the  window.  The  night  was  black,  and 
he  could  see  nothing  from  it.  The  rain  still  pattered  heav- 
ily against  the  glass.  He  inferred,  from  hearing  it,  that 
the  window  was  at  the  back  of  the  house;  remembering 
that  the  front  was  sheltered  from  the  weather  by  the  court 
and  the  buildings  over  it. 

While  he  was  still  standing  at  the  window — for  even  the 
dreary  rain  was  a relief,  because  of  the  sound  it  made;  a 
relief,  also,  because  it  moved,  and  had  some  faint  sugges- 
tion, in  consequence,  of  life  and  companionship  in  it — while 
he  was  standing  at  the  window,  and  looking  vacantly  into 
the  black  darkness  outside,  he  heard  a distant  church-clock 
strike  ten.  Only  ten!  How  was  he  to  pass  the  time  till 
the  house  was  astir  the  next  morning? 

Under  any  other  circumstances,  he  would  have  gone 
down  to  the  public-house  parlour,  would  have  called  for 
his  grog,  and  would  have  laughed  and  talked  with  the  com- 
pany assembled  as  familiarly  as  if  he  had  known  them  all 
his  life.  But  the  very  thought  of  whiling  away  the  time 
in  this  manner  was  distasteful  to  him.  The  new  situation 
in  which  he  was  placed  seemed  to  have  altered  him  to  him- 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPREKTICES.  33 


self  already.  Thus  far,  his  life  had  been  the  common, 
trifling,  prosaic,  surface-life  of  a prosperous  young  man, 
with  no  troubles  to  conquer,  and  no  trials  to  face.  He  had 
lost  no  relation  whom  he  loved,  no  friend  whom  he  treas- 
ured. Till  this  night,  what  share  he  had  of  the  immortal 
inheritance  that  is  divided  amongst  us  all,  had  lain  dormant 
within  him.  Till  this  night,  Death  and  he  had  not  once 
met,  even  in  thought. 

He  took  a few  turns  up  and  down  the  room — then 
stopped.  The  noise  made  by  his  boots  on  the  poorly  car- 
peted floor,  jarred  on  his  ear.  He  hesitated  a little,  and 
ended  by  taking  the  boots  off,  and  walking  backwards  and 
forwards  noiselessly.  All  desire  to  sleep  or  to  rest  had 
left  him.  The  bare  thought  of  lying  down  on  the  unoccu- 
pied bed  instantly  drew  the  picture  on  his  mind  of  a dread- 
ful mimicry  of  the  position  of  the  dead  man.  Who  was  he? 
What  was  the  story  of  his  past  life?  Poor  he  must  have 
been,  or  he  would  not  have  stopped  at  such  a place  as  The 
Two  Robins  Inn — and  weakened,  probably,  by  long  illness, 
or  he  could  hardly  have  died  in  the  manner  in  which  the 
landlord  had  described.  Poor,  ill,  lonely,  — dead  in  a 
strange  place;  dead,  with  nobody  but  a stranger  to  pity 
him.  A sad  story : truly,  on  the  mere  face  of  it,  a very 
sad  story. 

While  these  thoughts  were  passing  through  his  mind,  he 
had  stopped  insensibly  at  the  window,  close  to  which  stood 
the  foot  of  the  bed  with  the  closed  curtains.  At  first  he 
looked  at  it  absently ; then  he  became  conscious  that  his 
eyes  were  fixed  on  it;  and  then,  a perverse  desire  took  pos- 
session of  him  to  do  the  very  thing  which  he  had  resolved 
not  to  do,  up  to  this  time — to  look  at  the  dead  man. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  towards  the  curtains;  but 
checked  himself  in  the  very  act  of  undrawing  them,  turned 
his  back  sharply  on  the  bed,  and  walked  towards  the  chim- 
ney-piece, to  see  what  things  were  placed  on  it,  and  to  try 
if  he  could  keep  the  dead  man  out  of  his  mind  in  that  way. 

There  was  a pewter  inkstand  on  the  chimney-piece, 
with  some  mildewed  remains  of  ink  in  the  bottle.  There 
were  two  coarse  china  ornaments  of  the  commonest  kind; 
and  there  was  a square  of  embossed  card,  dirty  and  fly- 
blown, with  a collection  of  wretched  riddles  printed  on  it, 
in  all  sorts  of  zig-zag  directions,  and  in  variously  coloured 
inks.  He  took  the  card,  and  went  away,  to  read  it,  to  the 


34  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

table  on  which  the  candle  was  placed;  sitting  down,  with 
his  back  resolutely  turned  to  the  curtained  bed. 

He  read  the  first  riddle,  the  second,  the  third,  all  in  one 
corner  of  the  card — then  turned  it  round  impatiently  to 
look  at  another.  Before  he  could  begin  reading  the  riddles 
printed  here,  the  sound  of  the  church-clock  stopped  him. 
Eleven.  He  had  got  through  an  hour  of  the  time,  in  the 
room  with  the  dead  man. 

Once  more  he  looked  at  the  card.  It  was  not  easy  to 
make  out  the  letters  printed  on  it,  in  consequence  of  the 
dimness  of  the  light  which  the  landlord  had  left  him — a 
common  tallow  candle,  furnished  with  a pair  of  heavy  old- 
fashioned  steel  snuffers.  Up  to  this  time,  his  mind  had 
been  too  much  occupied  to  think  of  the  light.  He  had  left 
the  wick  of  the  candle  unsnuffed,  till  it  had  risen  higher 
than  the  flame,  and  had  burnt  into  an  odd  penthouse  shape 
at  the  top,  from  which  morsels  of  the  charred  cotton  fell 
off,  from  time  to  time,  in  little  flakes.  He  took  up  the 
snuffers  now,  and  trimmed  the  wick.  The  light  brightened 
directly,  and  the  room  became  less  dismal. 

Again  he  turned  to  the  riddles;  reading  them  doggedly 
and  resolutely,  now  in  one  corner  of  the  card,  now  in  an- 
other. All  his  efforts,  however,  could  not  fix  his  attention 
on  them.  He  pursued  his  occupation  mechanically,  deriv- 
ing no  sort  of  impression  from  what  he  was  reading.  It 
was  as  if  a shadow  from  the  curtained  bed  had  got  between 
his  mind  and  the  gaily  printed  letters — a shadow  that 
nothing  could  dispel.  At  last,  he  gave  up  the  struggle,  and 
threw  the  card  from  him  impatiently,  and  took  to  walking 
softly  up  and  down  the  room  again. 

The  dead  man,  the  dead  man,  the  hidden  dead  man  on 
the  bed ! There  was  the  one  persistent  idea  still  haunting 
him.  Hidden?  Was  it  only  the  body  being  there,  or  was 
it  the  body  being  there,  concealed,  that  was  preying  on  his 
mind?  He  stopped  at  the  window,  with  that  doubt  in 
him;  once  more  listening  to  the  pattering  rain,  once  more 
looking  out  into  the  black  darkness. 

Still  the  dead  man ! The  darkness  forced  his  mind  back 
upon  itself,  and  set  his  memory  at  work,  reviving,  with  a 
painfully  vivid  distinctness  the  momentary  impression  it 
had  received  from  the  first  sight  of  the  corpse.  Before 
long  the  face  seemed  to  be  hovering  out  in  the  middle  of 
the  darkness,  confronting  him  through  the  window,  with 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  35 

the  paleness  whiter,  with  the  dreadful  dull  line  of  light 
between  the  imperfectly  closed  eyelids  broader  than  he  had 
seen  it — with  the  parted  lips  slowly  dropping  farther  and 
farther  away  from  each  other — with  the  features  grow- 
ing larger  and  moving  closer,  till  they  seemed  to  fill  the 
window  and  to.  silence  the  rain,  and  to  shut  out  the 
night. 

The  sound  of  a voice,  shouting  below-stairs,  woke  him 
suddenly  from  the  dream  of  his  own  distempered  fancy. 
He  recognised  it  as  the  voice  of  the  landlord.  ''  Shut  up  at 
twelve,  Ben,^^  he  heard  it  say.  ''  I’m  off  to  bed.” 

He  wiped  away  the  damp  that  had  gathered  on  his  fore- 
head, reasoned  with  himself  for  a little  while,  and  resolved 
to  shake  his  mind  free  of  the  ghastly  counterfeit  which  still 
clung  to  it,  by  forcing  himself  to  confront,  if  it  was  only 
for  a moment,  the  solemn  reality.  Without  allowing  him- 
self an  instant  to  hesitate,  he  parted  the  curtains  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  and  looked  through. 

There  was  a sad,  peaceful,  white  face,  with  the  awful 
i mystery  of  stillness  on  it,  laid  back  upon  the  pillow.  No 
stir,  no  change  there ! He  only  looked  at  it  for  a moment 
before  he  closed  the  curtains  again — but  that  moment 
steadied  him,  calmed  him,  restored  him — mind  and  bodv 
— to  himself. 

He  returned  to  his  old  occupation  of  walking  up  and 
down  the  room;  persevering  in  it,  this  time,  till  the  clock 
struck  again.  Twelve. 

As  the  sound  of  the  clock-bell  died  away,  it  was  suc- 
ceeded by  the  confused  noise,  down-stairs,  of  the  drinkers 
in  the  tap-room  leaving  the  house.  The  next  sound,  after 
an  interval  of  silence,  was  caused  by  the  barring  of  the 
door,  and  the  closing  of  the  shutters,  at  the  back  of  the 
Inn.  Then  the  silence  followed  again,  and  was  disturbed 
Qo  more. 

He  was  alone  now — absolutely,  utterly,  alone  with  the 
dead  man,  till  the  next  morning. 

The  wick  of  the  candle  wanted  trimming  again.  He  took 
ap  the  snuffers — but  paused  suddenly  on  the  very  point  of 
asing  them,  and  looked  attentively  at  the  candle — then 
oack,  over  his  shoulder,  at  the  curtained  bed — then  again 
at  the  candle.  It  had  been  lighted,  for  the  first  time,  to 
5how  him  the  way  up-stairs,  and  three  parts  of  it,  at  least, 
were  already  consumed.  In  another  hour  it  would  be  burnt 


eSG  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


out.  In  another  hour — unless  he  called  at  once  to  the  man 
who  had  shut  up  the  Inn,  for  a fresh  candle — he  would  be 
left  in  the  dark. 

Strongly  as  his  mind  had  been  affected  since  he  had  en- 
tered the  room,  his  unreasonable  dread  of  encountering  rid- 
icule, and  of  exposing  his  courage  to  suspicion,  had  not  al- 
together lost  its  influence  over  him,  even  yet.  He  lingered 
irresolutely  by  the  table,  waiting  till  he  could  prevail  on 
himself  to  open  the  door,  and  call,  from  the  landing,  to  the 
man  who  had  shut  up  the  Inn.  In  his  present  hesitating 
frame  of  mind,  it  was  a kind  of  relief  to  gain  a few  mo- 
ments only  by  engaging  in  the  trifling  occupation  of  snuffing 
the  candle.  His  hand  trembled  a little,  and  the  snuffers 
were  heavy  and  awkward  to  use.  When  he  closed  them  on 
the  wick,  he  closed  them  a hair’s  breadth  too  low.  In  an 
instant  the  candle  was  out,  and  the  room  was  plunged  in 
pitch  darkness. 

The  one  impression  which  the  absence  of  light  immedi- 
ately produced  on  his  mind,  was  distrust  of  the  curtained 
bed — distrust  which  shaped  itself  into  no  distinct  idea,  but 
which  was  powerful  enough,  in  its  very  vagueness,  to  bind 
him  down  to  his  chair,  to  make  his  heart  beat  fast,  and  to 
set  him  listening  intently.  ISTo  sound  stirred  in  the  room 
but  the  familiar  sound  of  the  rain  against  the  window, 
louder  and  sharper  now  than  he  had  heard  it  yet. 

Still  the  vague  distrust,  the  inexpressible  dread  possessed 
him,  and  kept  him  to  his  chair.  He  had  put  his  carpet-bag 
on  the  table,  when  he  first  entered  the  room;  and  he  now 
took  the  key  from  his  pocket,  reached  out  his  hand  softl3b 
opened  the  bag,  and  groped  in  it  for  his  travelling  writing- 
case,  in  which  he  knew  that  there  was  a small  store  of 
matches.  When  he  had  got  one  of  the  matches,  he  waited 
before  he  struck  it  on  the  coarse  wooden  table,  and  listened 
intently  again,  without  knowing  why.  Still  there  was  no 
sound  in  the  room  but  the  steady,  ceaseless,  rattling  sound 
of  the  rain. 

He  lighted  the  candle  again,  without  another  moment  of 
delay;  and,  on  the  instant  of  its  burning  up,  the  first  ob- 
ject in  the  room  that  his  eyes  sought  for  was  the  curtained 
bed. 

Just  before  the  light  had  been  put  out,  he  had  looked  in 
that  direction,  and  had  seen  no  change,  no  disarrangement 
of  any  sort,  in  the  folds  of  the  closely  drawn  curtains. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  37 


When  he  looked  at  the  bed,  now,  he  saw,  hanging  over 
the  side  of  it,  a long  white  hand. 

It  lay  perfectly  motionless,  midway  on  the  side  of  the 
bed,  where  the  curtain  at  the  head  and  the  curtain  at  the 
foot  met.  Nothing  more  was  visible.  The  clinging  cur- 
tains hid  everything  but  the  long  white  hand. 

He  stood  looking  at  it  unable  to  stir,  unable  to  call  out; 
feeling  nothing,  knowing  nothing,  every  faculty  he  pos- 
sessed gathered  up  and  lost  in  the  one  seeing  faculty. 
How  long  that  first  panic  held  him  he  never  could  tell 
afterwards.  It  might  have  been  only  for  a moment;  it 
might  have  been  for  many  minutes  together.  How  he  got 
to  the  bed — whether  he  ran  to  it  headlong,  or  whether  he 
approached  it  slowly — how  he  wrought  himself  up  to  un- 
close the  curtains  and  look  in,  he  never  has  remembered, 
and  never  will  remember  to  his  dying  day.  It  is  enough 
that  he  did  go  to  the  bed,  and  that  he  did  look  inside  the 
curtains. 

The  man  had  moved.  One  of  his  arms  was  outside  the 
clothes;  his  face  was  turned  a little  on  the  pillow;  his  eye- 
lids were  wide  open.  Changed  as  to  position,  and  as  to 
one  of  the  features,  the  face  was,  otherwise,  fearfully  and 
wonderfully  unaltered.  The  dead  paleness  and  the  dead 
quiet  were  on  it  still. 

One  glance  showed  Arthur  this — one  glance,  before  he 
flew  breathlessly  to  the  door,  and  alarmed  the  house. 

The  man  whom  the  landlord  called  ‘^Ben,’^  was  the  first 
to  appear  on  the  stairs.  In  three  words,  Arthur  told  him 
what  had  happened,  and  sent  him  for  the  nearest  doctor. 

I,  who  tell  you  this  story,  was  then  staying  with  a med- 
ical friend  of  mine,  in  practice  at  Doncaster,  taking  care  of 
his  patients  for  him,  during  his  absence  in  London;  and  I, 
for  the  time  being,  was  the  nearest  doctor.  They  had  sent 
for  me  from  the  Inn,  when  the  stranger  was  taken  ill  in  the 
afternoon;  but  I was  not  at  home,  and  medical  assistance 
was  sought  for  elsewhere.  When  the  man  from  The  Two 
Robins  rang  the  night-bell,  I was  just  thinking  of  going  to 
bed.  Naturally  enough,  I did  not  believe  a word  of  his 
story  about  ‘^a  dead  man  who  had  come  to  life  again.’’ 
However,  I put  on  my  hat,  armed  myself  with  one  or  two 
bottles  of  restorative  medicine,  and  ran  to  the  Inn,  expect- 
ing to  find  nothing  more  remarkable,  when  I got  there, 
than  a patient  in  a fit. 


‘^8  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


My  surprise  at  finding  that  the  man  had  Sjooken  the  lit- 
ei*al  truth  was  almost,  if  not  quite,  equalled  by  my  aston- 
ishment at  finding  myself  face  to  face  with  Arthur  Holli- 
day as  soon  as  I entered  the  bedroom.  It  was  no  time  then 
for  giving  or  seeking  explanations.  We  just  shook  hands 
amazedly;  and  then  I ordered  everybody  but  Arthur  out  of 
the  room,  and  hurried  to  the  man  on  the  bed. 

The  kitchen  fire  had  not  been  long  out.  There  was 
plenty  of  hot  water  in  the  boiler,  and  plenty  of  flannel  to 
be  had.  With  these,  with  my  medicines,  and  with  such 
help  as  Arthur  could  render  under  my  direction,  I dragged 
the  man,  literally,  out  of  the  jaws  of  death.  In  less  than 
an  hour  from  the  time  when  I had  been  called  in,  he  was 
alive  and  talking  in  the  bed  on  which  he  had  been  laid  out 
to  wait  for  the  Coroner’s  inquest. 

You  will  naturally  ask  me,  what  had  been  the  matter 
with  him;  and  I might  treat  you,  in  reply,  to  a long 
theory,  plentifully  sprinkled  with,  what  the  children  call, 
hard  words.  I prefer  telling  you  that,  in  this  case,  cause 
and  effect  could  not  be  satisfactorily  joined  together  by  any 
theory  whatever.  There  are  mysteries  in  life,  and  the  con- 
dition of  it,  which  human  science  has  not  fathomed  yet; 
and  I candidly  confess  to  you,  that,  in  bringing  that  man 
back  to  existence,  I was,  morally  speaking,  groping  hap- 
hazard in  the  dark.  I know  (from  the  testimony  of  the 
doctor  who  attended  him  in  the  afternoon)  that  the  vital 
machinery,  so  far  as  its  action  is  appreciable  by  our  senses, 
had,  in  this  case,  unquestionably  stopped;  and  I am  equally 
certain  (seeing  that  I recovered  him)  that  the  vital  princi- 
ple was  not  extinct.  W^hen  I add,  that  he  had  suffered 
from  a long  and  complicated  illness,  and  that  his  whole 
nervous  system  was  utterly  deranged,  I have  told  you  all  I 
really  know  of  the  physical  condition  of  my  dead-alive  pa- 
tient at  The  Two  Eobins  Inn. 

When  he  ^^came  to,”  as  the  phrase  goes,  he  was  a star- 
tling object  to  look  at,  with  his  colourless  face,  his  sunken 
cheeks,  his  wild  black  eyes,  and  his  long  black  hair.  The 
first  question  he  asked  me  about  himself,  when  he  could 
speak,  made  me  suspect  that  I had  been  called  in  to  a man 
in  my  own  profession.  I mentioned  to  him  my  surmise; 
and  he  told  me  that  I was  right. 

He  said  he  had  come  last  from  Paris,  where  he  had  bt^en 
attached  to  a hospital.  That  he  had  lately  returned  to 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  39 


England,  on  his  way  to  Edinburgh,  to  continue  his  studies; 
that  he  had  been  taken  ill  on  the  journey;  and  that  he  had 
stopped  to  rest  and  recover  himself  at  Doncaster.  He  did 
not  add  a word  about  his  name,  or  who  he  was : and,  of 
course,  I did  not  question  him  on  the  subject.  All  I in- 
quired, when  he  ceased  speaking,  was  what  branch  of  the 
profession  he  intended  to  follow. 

Any  branch,^^  he  said,  bitterly,  ‘^'Which  will  put  bread 
into  the  mouth  of  a poor  man.’’ 

At  this,  Arthur,  who  had  been  hitherto  watching  him  in 
silent  curiosity,  burst  out  impetuously  in  his  usual  good- 
humoured  way : — 

‘‘My  dear  fellow!”  (everybody  was  “my  dear  fellow  ” 
with  Arthur)  “now  you  have  come  to  life  again,  don’t  be- 
gin by  being  downhearted  about  your  prospects.  I’ll  an- 
swer for  it,  I can  help  you  to  some  capital  thing  in  the 
medical  line — or,  if  I can’t,  I know  my  father  can.” 

The  medical  student  looked  at  him  steadily. 

“Thank  you,”  he  said,  coldly.  Then  added,  “May  I 
ask  who  your  father  is?  ” 

“He’s  well  enough  known  all  about  this  part  of  the 
country,”  replied  Arthur.  “He  is  a great  manufacturer, 
and  his  name  is  Holliday.” 

My  hand  was  on  the  man’s  wrist  during  this  brief  con- 
versation. The  instant  the  name  of  Holliday  was  pro- 
nounced I felt  the  pulse  under  my  fingers  flutter,  stop,  go 
on  suddenly  with  a bound,  and  beat  afterwards,  for  a min- 
ute or  two,  at  the  fever  rate. 

“ How  did  you  come  here?  ” asked  the  stranger,  quickly, 
excitably,  passionately  almost. 

Arthur  related  briefly  what  had  happened  from  the  time 
of  his  first  taking  the  bed  at  the  Inn. 

“I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Holliday’s  son  then  for  the  help 
that  has  saved  my  life,”  said  the  medical  student,  speak- 
ing to  himself,  with  a singular  sarcasm  in  his  voice. 

“ Come  here ! ” 

He  held  out,  as  he  spoke,  his  long,  white,  bony,  right 
hand. 

“ With  all  my  heart,”  said  Arthur,  taking  the  hand  cor- 
dially. “I  may  confess  it  now,”  he  continued,  laughing. 
“Upon  my  honour,  you  almost  frightened  me  out  of  my 
wits.” 

The  stranger  did  not  seem  to  listen.  His  wild  black 


40  THE  LAZY  TOUK  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


eyes  were  fixed  with  a look  of  eager  interest  on  Arthur’s 
face,  and  his  long  bony  fingers  kept  tight  hold  of  Arthur’s 
hand.  Young  Holliday,  on  his  side,  returned  the  gaze, 
amazed  and  puzzled  by  the  medical  student’s  odd  language 
and  manners.  The  two  faces  were  close  together;  I looked 
at  them;  and,  to  my  amazement,  I was  suddenly  impressed 
by  the  sense  of  a likeness  between  them— not  in  features, 
or  complexion,  but  solely  in  expression.  It  must  have  been 
a strong  likeness,  or  I should  certainly  not  have  found  it 
out,  for  I am  naturally  slow  at  detecting  resemblances  be- 
tween faces. 

You  have  saved  my  life,”  said  the  strange  man,  still 
looking  hard  in  Arthur’s  face,  still  holding  tightly  by  his 
hand.  ^Hf  you  had  been  my  own  brother,  you  could  not 
have  done  more  for  me  than  that.” 

He  laid  a singularly  strong  emphasis  on  those  three 
words  my  own  brother,”  and  a change  passed  over  his 
face  as  he  pronounced  them, — a change  that  no  language 
of  mine  is  competent  to  describe. 

hope  I have  not  done  being  of  service  to  you  yet,” 
said  Arthur.  “ I’ll  speak  to  my  father,  as  soon  as  I get 
home.” 

You  seem  to  be  fond  and  proud  of  your  father,”  said 
the  medical  student.  I suppose,  in  return,  he  is  fond  and 
proud  of  you?  ” 

Of  course,  he  is ! ” answered  Arthur,  laughing.  “ Is 
there  anything  wonderful  in  that?  Isn’t  yowr  father 
fond ” 

The  stranger  suddenly  dropped  young  Holliday’s  hand, 
and  turned  his  face  away. 

I beg  your  pardon,  ” said  Arthur.  I hope  I have  not 
unintentionally  pained  you.  I hope  you  have  not  lost  your 
father.” 

I can’t  well  lose  what  I have  never  had,”  retorted  the 
medical  student,  with  a harsh,  mocking  laugh. 

What  you  have  never  had ! ” 

The  strange  man  suddenly  caught  Arthur’s  hand  again, 
suddenly  looked  once  more  hard  in  his  face. 

‘Wes,”  he  said,  with  a repetition  of  the  bitter  laugh. 
“ You  have  brought  a poor  devil  back  into  the  world,  who 
has  no  business  there.  Do  I astonish  you?  Well ! I have 
a fancy  of  my  own  for  telling  you  what  men  in  my  situa- 
tion generally  keep  a secret.  I have  no  name  and  no  father. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  41 


The  merciful  law  of  Society  tells  me  I am  Nobody^s  Son! 
Ask  your  father  if  he  will  be  my  father  too,  and  help  me 
on  in  life  with  the  family  name.^’ 

Arthur  looked  at  me,  more  puzzled  than  ever.  I signed 
to  him  to  say  nothing,  and  then  laid  my  fingers  again  on 
the  man^s  wrist.  No  1 In  spite  of  the  extraordinary  speech 
that  he  had  just  made,  he  was  not,  as  I had  been  disposed 
to  suspect,  beginning  to  get  light-headed.  His  pulse,  by 
this  time,  had  fallen  back  to  a quiet,  slow  beat,  and  his 
skin  was  moist  and  cool.  Not  a symptom  of  fever  or  agi- 
tation about  him. 

Finding  that  neither  of  us  answered  him,  he  turned  to 
me,  and  began  talking  of  the  extraordinary  nature  of  his 
case,  and  asking  my  advice  about  the  future  course  of  med- 
ical treatment  to  which  he  ought  to  subject  himself.  I said 
the  matter  required  careful  thinking  over,  and  suggested 
that  I should  submit  certain  prescriptions  to  him  the  next 
morning.  He  told  me  to  write  them  at  once,  as  he  would, 
most  likely,  be  leaving  Doncaster,  in  the  morning,  before 
I was  up.  It  was  quite  useless  to  represent  to  him  the 
folly  and  danger  of  such  a proceeding  as  this.  He  heard 
me  politely  and  patiently,  but  held  to  his  resolution,  with- 
out offering  any  reasons  or  any  explanations,  and  repeated 
to  me,  that  if  I wished  to  give  him  a chance  of  seeing  my 
prescription,  I must  write  it  at  once.  Hearing  this,  Arthur 
volunteered  the  loan  of  a travelling  writing-case,  which,  he 
said,  he  had  with  him;  and,  bringing  it  to  the  bed,  shook 
the  note-paper  out  of  the  pocket  of  the  case  forthwith 
in  his  usual  careless  way.  With  the  paper,  there  fell 
out  on  the  counterpane  of  the  bed  a small  packet  of  stick- 
ing-plaster, and  a little  water-colour  drawing  of  a land- 
scape. 

The  medical  student  took  up  the  drawing  and  looked  at 
it.  His  eye  fell  on  some  initials  neatly  written,  in  cypher, 
in  one  corner.  He  started  and  trembled;  his  pale  face 
grew  whiter  than  ever;  his  wild  black  eyes  turned  on 
Arthur,  and  looked  through  and  through  him. 

‘‘A.  pretty  drawing,’^  he  said  in  a remarkably  quiet  tone 
of  voice. 

^^Ah!  and  done  by  such  a pretty  girl,”  said  Arthur. 
^^Oh,  such  a pretty  girl!  I wish  it  was  not  a landscape — 

I wish  it  was  a portrait  of  her ! ” 

“ You  admire  her  very  much?  ” 


42  THE  LA.ZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

Arthur,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest,  kissed  his  hand  for 
answer. 

Love  at  first  sight ! ’’  he  said,  putting  the  drawing  away 
again.  But  the  course  of  it  doesn’t  run  smooth.  It’s 
the  old  story.  She’s  monopolised  as  usual.  Trammelled 
by  a rash  engagement  to  some  poor  man  who  is  never  likely 
to  get  money  enough  to  marry  her.  It  was  lucky  I heard 
of  it  in  time,  or  I should  certainly  have  risked  a declara- 
tion when  she  gave  me  that  drawing.  Here,  doctor ! Here 
is  pen,  ink,  and  paper  all  ready  for  you.” 

When  she  gave  you  that  drawing  ? Gave  it.  Gave  it.” 
He  repeated  the  words  slowly  to  himself,  and  suddenly 
closed  his  eyes.  A momentary  distortion  passed  across  his 
face,  and  I saw  one  of  his  hands  clutch  up  the  bed-clothes 
and  squeeze  them  hard.  I thought  he  was  going  to  be  ill 
again,  and  begged  that  there  might  be  no  more  talking. 
He  opened  his  eyes  when  I spoke,  fixed  them  once  more 
searchingly  on  Arthur,  and  said,  slowly  and  distinctly, 

You  like  her,  and  she  likes  you.  The  poor  man  may  die 
out  of  your  way.  Who  can  tell  that  she  may  not  give  you 
herself  as  well  as  her  drawing,  after  all?  ” 

Before  young  Holliday  could  answer,  he  turned  to  me, 
and  said  in  a whisper,  ^^Now  for  the  prescription.”  From 
that  time,  though  he  spoke  to  Arthur  again,  he  never  looked 
at  him  more. 

When  I had  written  the  prescription,  he  examined  it, 
approved  of  it,  and  then  astonished  us  both  by  abruptly 
wishing  us  good  night.  I offered  to  sit  up  with  him,  and 
he  shook  his  head,  Arthur  offered  to  sit  up  with  him,  and 
he  said,  shortly,  with  his  face  turned  away,  ‘‘Ho.”  I in- 
sisted on  having  somebody  left  to  watch  him.  He  gave 
way  when  he  found  I was  determined,  and  said  he  would 
accept  the  services  of  the  waiter  at  the  Inn. 

“Thank  you,  both,”  he  said,  as  we  rose  to  go.  “I  have 
one  last  favour  to  ask — not  of  you,  doctor,  for  I leave  you 
to  exercise  your  professional  discretion — but  of  Mr.  Holli- 
day.” His  eyes,  while  he  spoke,  still  rested  steadily  on 
me,  and  never  once  turned  towards  Arthur.  “ I beg  that 
Mr.  Holliday  will  not  mention  to  any  one — least  of  all  to 
his  father — the  events  that  have  occurred,  and  the  words 
that  have  passed,  in  this  room.  I entreat  him  to  bury 
me  in  his  memory,  as,  but  for  him,  I might  have  been 
buried  in  my  grave.  I cannot  give  my  reasons  for  mak- 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  ^3 

ing  this  strange  request.  I can  only  implore  him  to  grant 
it.” 

His  voice  faltered  for  the  first  time,  and  he  hid  his  face 
on  the  pillow.  Arthur,  completely  bewildered,  gave  the 
required  pledge.  I took  young  Holliday  away  with  me, 
immediately  afterwards,  to  the  house  of  my  friend;  deter- 
mining to  go  back  to  the  Inn,  and  to  see  the  medical  stu- 
dent again  before  he  had  left  in  the  morning. 

I returned  to  the  Inn  at  eight  o’clock,  purposely  abstain- 
ing from  waking  Arthur,  who  was  sleeping  off  the  past 
night’s  excitement  on  one  of  my  friend’s  sofas. ^ A suspi- 
cion had  occurred  to  me  as  soon  as  I was  alone  in  my  bed- 
room, which  made  me  resolve  that  Holliday  and  the 
stranger  whose  life  he  had  saved  should  not  meet  again,  if 
I could  prevent  it.  I have  already  alluded  to  certain  re- 
ports, or  scandals,  which  I knew  of,  relating  to  the  early 
life  of  Arthur’s  father.  While  I was  thinking,  in  my  bed, 
of  what  had  passed  at  the  Inn — of  the  change  in  the  stu- 
dent’s pulse  when  he  heard  the  name  of  Holliday;  of  the 
resemblance  of  expression  that  I had  discovered  between 
his  face  and  Arthur’s;  of  the  emphasis  he  had  laid  on  those 
three  words,  ‘^my  own  brother;  ” and  of  his  incomprehen- 
sible acknowledgment  of  his  own  illegitimacy — while  I was 
thinking  of  these  things,  the  reports  I have  mentioned  sud- 
denly flew  into  my  mind,  and  linked  themselves  fast  to  the 
chain  of  my  previous  reflections.  Something  within  me 
whispered,  “ It  is  best  that  those  two  young  men  should 
not  meet  again.”  I felt  it  before  I slept;  I felt  it  when  I 
woke;  and  I went,  as  I told  you,  alone  to  the  Inn  the  next 
morning. 

I had  missed  my  only  opportunity  of  seeing  my  nameless 
patient  again.  He  had  been  gone  nearly  an  hour  when  I 
inquired  for  him. 

I have  now  told  you  everything  that  I know  for  certain, 
in  relation  to  the  man  whom  I brought  back  to  life  in  the 
double-bedded  room  of  the  Inn  at  Doncaster.  What  I have 
next  to  add  is  matter  for  inference  and  surmise,  and  is  not, 
strictly  speaking,  matter  of  fact. 

I have  to  tell  you,  first,  that  the  medical  student  turned 
out  to  be  strangely  and  unaccountably  right  in  assuming  it 
as  more  than  probable  that  Arthur  Holliday  would  marry 
the  young  lady  who  had  given  him  the  water-colour  drawing 


44  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

of  the  landscape.  That  marriage  took  ^jlace  a little  more 
than  a year  after  the  events  occurred  which  I have  just 
been  relating.  The  young  couple  came  to  live  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood in  which  I was  then  established  in  practice.  I 
was  present  at  the  wedding,  and  was  rather  surprised  to 
find  that  Arthur  was  singularly  reserved  with  me,  both  be- 
fore and  after  his  marriage,  on  the  subject  of  the  young 
lady’s  prior  engagement.  He  only  referred  to  it  once, 
when  we  were  alone,  merely  telling  me,  on  that  occasion, 
that  his  wife  had  done  all  that  honour  and  duty  required 
of  her  in  the  matter,  and  that  the  engagement  had  been 
broken  off  with  the  full  approval  of  her  parents.  I never 
heard  more  from  him  than  this.  For  three  years  he  and 
his  wife  lived  together  happily.  At  the  expiration  of  that 
time,  the  symptoms  of  a serious  illness  first  declared  them- 
selves in  Mrs.  Arthur  Holliday.  It  turned  out  to  be  a 
long,  lingering,  hopeless  malady.  I attended  her  through- 
out. We  had  been  great  friends  when  she  was  well,  and 
we  became  more  attached  to  each  other  than  ever  when  she 
was  ill.  I had  many  long  and  interesting  conversations 
with  her  in  the  intervals  when  she  suffered  least.  The  re- 
sult of  one  of  these  conversations  I may  briefly  relate,  leav- 
ing you  to  draw  any  inferences  from  it  that  you  please. 

The  interview  to  which  I refer,  occurred  shortly  before 
her  death.  I called  one  evening,  as  usual,  and  found  her 
alone,  with  a look  in  her  eyes  which  told  me  that  she  had 
been  crying.  She  only  informed  me  at  first,  that  she  had 
been  depressed  in  spirits;  but,  by  little  and  little,  she  be- 
came more  communicative,  and  confessed  to  me  that  she 
had  been  looking  over  some  old  letters,  which  had  been  ad- 
dressed to  her,  before  she  had  seen  Arthur,  by  a man  to 
whom  she  had  been  engaged  to  be  married.  I asked  her 
how  the  engagement  came  to  be  broken  off.  She  replied 
that  it  had  not  been  broken  off,  but  that  it  had  died  out  in 
a very  mysterious  way.  The  person  to  whom  she  was  en- 
gaged— her  first  love,  she  called  him — was  very  poor,  and 
there  was  no  immediate  prospect  of  their  being  married. 
He  followed  my  profession,  and  went  abroad  to  study. 
They  had  corresponded  regularly,  until  the  time  when,  as 
she  believed,  he  had  returned  to  England.  From  that 
period  she  heard  no  more  of  him.  He  was  of  a fretful, 
sensitive  temperament;  and  she  feared  that  she  might  have 
inadvertently  done  or  said  something  that  offended  him. 


THE  LAZY  TOUH  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  45 


However  that  might  be,  he  had  never  written  to  her  again; 
and,  after  waiting  a year,  she  had  married  Arthur.  I asked 
when  the  first  estrangement  had  begun,  and  found  that  the 
time  at  which  she  ceased  to  hear  anything  of  her  first  lover 
exactly  corresponded  with  the  time  at  which  I had  been 
called  in  to  my  mysterious  patient  at  The  Two  Eobins  Inn. 

A fortnight  after  that  conversation,  she  died.  In  course 
of  time,  Arthur  married  again.  Of  late  years,  he  has 
lived  principally  in  London,  and  I have  seen  little  or 
nothing  of  him. 

I have  many  years  to  pass  over  before  I can  approach  to 
anything  like  a conclusion  of  this  fragmentary  narrative. 
And  even  when  that  later  period  is  reached,  the  little  that 
I have  to  say  will  not  occupy  your  attention  for  more  than 
a few  minutes.  Between  six  and  seven  years  ago,  the  gen- 
tleman to  whom  I introduced  you  in  this  room,  came  to 
me,  with  good  professional  recommendations,  to  fill  the  po- 
sition of  my  assistant.  We  met,  not  like  strangers,  but 
like  friends — the  only  difference  between  us  being,  that  I 
was  very  much  surprised  to  see  him,  and  that  he  did  not 
appear  to  be  at  all  surprised  to  see  me.  If  he  was  my  son, 
or  my  brother,  I believe  he  could  not  be  fonder  of  me  than 
he  is;  but  he  has  never  volunteered  any  confidence  since 
he  has  been  here,  on  the  subject  of  his  past  life.  I saw 
something  that  was  familiar  to  me  in  his  face  when  we  first 
met;  and  yet  it  was  also  something  that  suggested  the  idea 
of  change.  I had  a notion  once  that  my  patient  at  the  Inn 
might  be  a natural  son  of  Mr.  Holliday ^s;  I had  another 
idea  that  he  might  also  have  been  the  man  who  was  en- 
gaged to  Arthur’s  first  wife;  and  I have  a third  idea,  still 
clinging  to  me,  that  Mr.  Lorn  is  the  only  man  in  England 
who  could  really  enlighten  me,  if  he  chose,  on  both  those 
doubtful  points.  His  hair  is  not  black,  now,  and  his  eyes 
are  dimmer  than  the  piercing  eyes  that  I remember,  but, 
for  all  that,  he  is  very  like  the  nameless  medical  student 
of  my  young  days — very  like  him.  And,  sometimes,  when 
I come  home  late  at  night,  and  find  him  asleep,  and  wake 
him,  he  looks,  in  coming  to,  wonderfully  like  the  stranger 
at  Doncaster,  as  he  raised  himself  in  the  bed  on  that  mem- 
orable night ! 

The  Doctor  paused.  Mr.  Goodchild  who  had  been  fol- 
lowing every  word  that  fell  from  his  lips,  up  to  this  time. 


Uy  THE  LAZY  TOUH  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

leaned  forward  eagerly  to  ask  a question.  Before  he  could 
say  a word,  the  latch  of  the  door  was  raised,  without  any 
warning  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  passage  outside.  A long, 
white,  bony  hand  appeared  through  the  opening,  gently 
pushing  the  door,  which  was  prevented  from  working  freely 
on  its  hinges  by  a fold  in  the  carpet  under  it. 

That  hand ! Look  at  that  hand.  Doctor ! said  Mr. 
Goodchild,  touching  him. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  Doctor  looked  at  Mr.  Good- 
child,  and  whispered  to  him,  significantly ; 

‘^Hush!  he  has  come  back.^’ 


CHAPTER  III. 

The  Cumberland  Doctor’s  mention  of  Doncaster  Races, 
inspired  Mr.  Francis  Goodchild  with  the  idea  of  going  down 
to  Doncaster  to  see  the  races.  Doncaster  being  a good  way 
off,  and  quite  out  of  the  way  of  the  Idle  Apprentices  (if 
anything  could  be  out  of  their  way,  who  had  no  way),  it 
necessarily  followed  that  Francis  perceived  Doncaster  in  the 
race-week  to  be,  of  all  possible  idlenesses,  the  particular 
idleness  that  would  completely  satisfy  him. 

Thomas,  with  an  enforced  idleness  grafted  on  the  natural 
and  voluntary  power  of  his  disposition,  was  not  of  this  mind; 
objecting  that  a man  compelled  to  lie  on  his  back  on  a 
floor,  a sofa,  a table,  a line  of  chairs,  or  anything  he  could 
get  to  lie  upon,  was  not  in  racing  condition,  and  that  he 
desired  nothing  better  than  to  lie  where  he  was,  enjoying 
himself  in  looking  at  the  flies  on  the  ceiling.  But,  Francis 
Goodchild,  who  had  been  walking  round  his  companion  in 
a circuit  of  twelve  miles  for  two  days,  and  had  begun  to 
doubt  whether  it  was  reserved  for  him  ever  to  be  idle  in  his 
life,  not  only  overpowered  this  objection,  but  even  con- 
verted Thomas  Idle  to  a scheme  he  formed  (another  idle 
inspiration),  of  conveying  the  said  Thomas  to  the  sea- 
coast,  and  putting  his  injured  leg  under  a stream  of  salt- 
water. 

Plunging  into  this  happy  conception  headforemost,  Mr. 
Goodchild  immediately  referred  to  the  county-map,  and 
ardently  discovered  that  the  most  delicious  piece  of  sea- 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  47 


coast  to  be  found  within  the  limits  of  England,  Ireland, 
Scotland,  Wales,  the  Isle  of  Man,  and  the  Channel  Islands, 
all  summed  up  together,  was  Allonby  on  the  coast  of  Cum- 
berland. There  was  the  coast  of  Scotland  opposite  to 
Allonby,  said  Mr.  Goodchild  with  enthusiasm;  there  was 
a fine  Scottish  mountain  on  that  Scottish  coast;  there  were 
Scottish  lights  to  be  seen  shining  across  the  glorious  Chan- 
nel, and  at  Allonby  itself  there  was  every  idle  luxury  (no 
doubt),  that  a watering-place  could  offer  to  the  heart  of 
idle  man.  Moreover,  said  Mr.  Goodchild,  with  his  finger 
on  the  map,  this  exquisite  retreat  was  approached  by  a 
coach-road,  from  a railway-station  called  Aspatria  — a 
name,  in  a manner,  suggestive  of  the  departed  glories  of 
Greece,  associated  with  one  of  the  most  engaging  and  most 
fajnous  of  Greek  women.  On  this  point,  Mr.  Goodchild 
continued  at  intervals  to  breathe  a vein  of  classic  fancy  and 
eloquence  exceedingly  irksome  to  Mr.  Idle,  until  it  ap- 
peared that  the  honest  English  pronunciation  of  that  Cum- 
berland country  shortened  Aspatria  into  Spatter.^’  After 
this  supplementary  discovery,  Mr.  Goodchild  said  no  more 
about  it. 

By  way  of  Spatter,  the  crippled  Idle  was  carried,  hoisted, 
pushed,  poked,  and  packed,  into  and  out  of  carriages,  into 
and  out  of  beds,  into  and  out  of  tavern  resting-places,  until 
he  was  brought  at  length  within  sniff  of  the  sea.  And  now, 
behold  the  apprentices  gallantly  riding  into  Allonby  in  a 
one-horse  fly,  bent  upon  staying  in  that  peaceful  marine 
valley  until  the  turbulent  Doncaster  time  shall  come  round 
upon  the  wheel,  in  its  turn  among  what  are  in  sporting 
registers  called  the  Fixtures  for  the  month. 

“Do  you  see  Allonby?^’  asked  Thomas  Idle. 

“I  don’t  see  it  yet,”  said  Francis  looking  out  of  window. 

“It  must  be  there,”  said  Thomas  Idle. 

“I  don’t  see  it,”  returned  Francis. 

“It  must  be  there,”  repeated  Thomas  Idle,  fretfully. 

“ Lord  bless  me ! ” exclaimed  Francis,  drawing  in  his 
head,  “ I suppose  this  is  it ! ” 

“A  watering-place,”  retorted  Thomas  Idle,  with  the  par- 
donable sharpness  of  an  invalid,  “ can’t  be  five  gentlemen 
in  straw-hats,  on  a form  on  one  side  of  a door,  and  four 
ladies  in  hats  and  falls,  on  a form  on  another  side  of  a 
door,  and  three  geese  in  a dirty  little  brook  before  them, 
and  a boy’s  legs  hanging  over  a bridge  (with  a boy’s  body 


48  the  lazy  tour  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


I suppose  on  tlie  other  side  of  the  parapet),  and  a donkey 
running  away.  What  are  you  talking  about?  ’’ 

^^Allonby,  gentlemen,’^  said  the  most  comfortable  of 
landladies,  as  she  opened  one  door  of  the  carriage; 
“Allonby,  gentlemen, said  the  most  attentive  of  land- 
lords, as  he  opened  the  other. 

Thomas  Idle  yielded  his  arm  to  the  ready  Goodchild,  and 
descended  from  the  vehicle.  Thomas,  now  just  able  to 
grope  his  way  along,  in  a doubled-up  condition,  with  the 
aid  of  two  thick  sticks,  was  no  bad  embodiment  of  Com- 
modore Trunnion,  or  of  one  of  those  many  gallant  Admirals 
of  the  stage,  who  have  all  ample  fortunes,  gout,  thick- 
sticks,  tempers,  wards,  and  nephews.  With  this  distin- 
guished naval  appearance  upon  him,  Thomas  made  a crab- 
like progress  up  a clean  little  bulk-headed  staircase,  into  a 
clean  little  bulk-headed  room,  where  he  slowly  deposited 
himself  on  a sofa,  with  a stick  on  either  hand  of  him,  look- 
ing exceedingly  grim. 

“Francis,’^  said  Thomas  Idle,  ‘‘what  do  you  think  of 
this  place?  ’’ 

“I  think,”  returned  Mr.  Goodchild,  in  a glowing  way, 
“it  is  everything  we  expected.” 

“Hah!”  said  Thomas  Idle. 

“There  is  the  sea,”  cried  Mr.  Goodchild,  pointing  out  of 
window;  “and  here,”  pointing  to  the  lunch  on  the  table, 

“are  shrimps.  Let  us ” here  Mr.  Goodchild  looked 

out  of  window,  as  if  in  search  of  something,  and  looked  in 
again, — “ let  us  eat ’em.” 

The  shrimps  eaten  and  the  dinner  ordered,  Mr.  Good- 
child  went  out  to  survey  the  watering-place.  As  Chorus 
of  the  Drama,  without  whom  Thomas  could  make  nothing 
of  the  scenery,  he  by-and-bye  returned,  to  have  the  follow- 
ing report  screwed  out  of  him. 

In  brief,  it  was  the  most  delightful  place  ever  seen. 

“But,”  Thomas  Idle  asked,  “where  is  it?  ” 

“It’s  what  you  may  call  generally  up  and  down  the 
beach,  here  and  there,”  said  Mr.  Goodchild,  with  a twist 
of  his  hand. 

“Proceed,”  said  Thomas  Idle. 

It  was,  Mr.  Goodchild  went  on  to  say,  in  cross-examina- 
tion, what  you  might  call  a primitive  place.  Large?  No, 
it  was  not  large.  Who  ever  expected  it  would  be  large? 
Shape?  What  a (piestion  to  ask!  No  shape.  What  sort 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  49 


of  a street?  Why,  no  street.  Shops?  Yes,  of  course 
(quite  indignant).  How  many?  Who  ever  went  into  a 
place  to  count  the  shops?  Ever  so  many.  Six?  Perhaps. 
A library?  Why,  of  course  (indignant  again).  Good  col- 
lection of  books?  Most  likely — couldn’t  say — had  seen 
nothing  in  it  but  a pair  of  scales.  Any  reading-room?  Of 
course,  there  was  a reading-room.  Where?  Where!  why, 
over  there.  Where  was  over  there?  Why,  there!  Let 
Mr.  Idle  carry  his  eye  to  that  bit  of  waste-ground  above 
high  water-mark,  where  the  rank  grass  and  loose  stones 
were  most  in  a litter;  and  he  would  see  a sort  of  a long 
ruinous  brick  loft,  next  door  to  a ruinous  brick  outhouse, 
which  loft  had  a ladder  outside,  to  get  up  by.  That  was 
the  reading-room,  and  if  Mr.  Idle  didn’t  like  the  idea  of  a 
weaver’s  shuttle  throbbing  under  a reading-room,  that  was 
his  look-out.  He  was  not  to  dictate,  Mr.  Goodchild  sup- 
posed (indignant  again),  to  the  company. 

^^By  the  bye,”  Thomas  Idle  observed;  ^Hhe  company?” 

Well!  (Mr.  Goodchild  went  on  to  report)  very  nice  com- 
pany. Where  were  they?  Why,  there  they  were.  Mr. 
Idle  could  see  the  tops  of  their  hats,  he  supposed.  What? 
Those  nine  straw-hats  again,  five  gentlemen’s  and  four 
ladies’?  Yes,  to  be  sure.  Mr.  Goodchild  hoped  the  com- 
pany were  not  to  be  expected  to  wear  helmets,  to  please 
Mr.  Idle. 

Beginning  to  recover  his  temper  at  about  this  point,  Mr. 
Goodchild  voluntarily  reported  that  if  you  wanted  to  be 
primitive,  you  could  be  primitive  here,  and  that  if  you 
wanted  to  be  idle,  you  could  be  idle  here.  In  the  course  of 
some  days,  he  added,  that  there  were  three  fishing-boats, 
but  no  rigging,  and  that  there  were  plenty  of  fishermen 
who  never  fished.  That  they  got  their  living  entirely  by 
looking  at  the  ocean.  What  nourishment  they  looked  out 
of  it  to  support  their  strength,  he  couldn’t  say;  but,  he 
supposed  it  was  some  sort  of  Iodine.  The  place  was  full 
of  their  children,  who  were  always  upside  down  on  the 
public  buildings  (two  small  bridges  over  the  brook),  and 
always  hurting  themselves  or  one  another,  so  that  their 
wailings  made  more  continual  noise  in  the  air  than  could 
have  been  got  in  a busy  place.  The  houses  people  lodged 
in,  were  nowhere  in  particular,  and  were  in  capital  ac- 
cordance with  the  beach;  being  all  more  or  less  cracked 
and  damaged  as  its  shells  were,  and  all  empty — as  its  shells 
4 


50  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


were.  Among  them,  was  an  edifice  of  destitute  appearance, 
with  a number  of  wall-eyed  windows  in  it,  looking  desper- 
ately out  to  Scotland  as  if  for  help,  which  said  it  was  a 
Bazaar  (and  it  ought  to  know),  and  where  you  might  buy 
anything  you  wanted — supposing  what  you  wanted,  was  a 
little  camp-stool  or  a child’s  wheelbarrow.  The  brook 
crawled  or  stopped  between  the  houses  and  the  sea,  and  the 
donkey  was  always  running  away,  and  when  he  got  into 
the  brook  he  was  pelted  out  with  stones,  which  never  hit 
him,  and  which  always  hit  some  of  the  children  who  were 
upside  down  on  the  public  buildings,  and  made  their  lam- 
entations louder.  This  donkey  was  the  public  excitement 
of  Allonby,  and  was  probably  supported  at  the  public  ex- 
pense. 

The  foregoing  descriptions,  delivered  in  separate  items, 
on  separate  days  of  adventurous  discovery,  Mr.  Goodchild 
severally  wound  up,  by  looking  out  of  window,  looking  in 
again,  and  saying,  But  there  is  the  sea,  and  here  are  the 
shrimps — let  us  eat  ’em.” 

There  were  fine  sunsets  at  Allonby  when  the  low  flat 
beach,  with  its  pools  of  water  and  its  dry  patches,  changed 
into  long  bars  of  silver  and  gold  in  various  states  of  bur- 
nishing, and  there  were  fine  views — on  fine  days — of  the 
Scottish  coast.  But,  when  it  rained  at  Allonby,  Allonby 
thrown  back  upon  its  ragged  self,  became  a kind  of  place 
which  the  donkey  seemed  to  have  found  out,  and  to  have 
his  highly  sagacious  reasons  for  wishing  to  bolt  from. 
Thomas  Idle  observed,  too,  that  Mr.  Goodchild,  with  a 
noble  show  of  disinterestedness,  became  every  day  more 
ready  to  walk  to  Maryport  and  back,  for  letters;  and  sus- 
picions began  to  harbour  in  the  mind  of  Thomas,  that  his 
friend  deceived  him,  and  that  Maryport  was  a preferable 
place. 

Therefore,  Thomas  said  to  Francis  on  a day  when  they 
had  looked  at  the  sea  and  eaten  the  shrimps,  My  mind 
misgives  me,  Goodchild,  that  you  go  to  Maryport,  like  the 
boy  in  the  story-book,  to  ask  it  to  be  idle  with  you.” 

Judge,  then,”  returned  Francis,  adopting  the  style  of 
the  story-book,  ‘^with  what  success.  I go  to  a region 
which  is  a bit  of  water-side  Bristol,  with  a slice  of  Wap- 
ping,  a seasoning  of  Wolverhampton,  and  a garnish  of 
Portsmouth,  and  I say,  ‘ Will  you  come  and  be  idle  with 
me?  ’ And  it  answers,  ‘ No;  for  I am  a great  deal  too  va- 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  51 

porous,  and  a great  deal  too  rusty,  and  a great  deal  too 
muddy,  and  a great  deal  too  dirty  altogether;  and  I have 
ships  to  load,  and  pitch  and  tar  to  boil,  and  iron  to  ham- 
mer, and  steam  to  get  up,  and  smoke  to  make,  and  stone  to 
quarry,  and  fifty  other  disagreeable  things  to  do,  and  I 
can’t  be  idle  with  you.’  Then  I go  into  jagged  up-hill 
and  down-hill  streets,  where  I am  in  the  pastrycook’s  shop 
at  one  moment,  and  next  moment  in  savage  fastnesses  of 
moor  and  morass,  beyond  the  confines  of  civilisation,  and  I 
say  to  those  murky  and  black-dusky  streets,  ‘ Will  you 
come  and  be  idle  with  me?  ’ To  which  they  reply,  ‘ No, 
we  can’t,  indeed,  for  we  haven’t  the  spirits,  and  we  are 
startled  by  the  echo  of  your  feet  on  the  sharp  pavement, 
and  we  have  so  many  goods  in  our  shop- windows  which  no- 
body wants,  and  we  have  so  much  to  do  for  a limited  public 
which  never  comes  to  us  to  be  done  for,  that  we  are  alto- 
gether out  of  sorts  and  can’t  enjoy  ourselves  with  any  one.’ 
So  I go  to  the  Post-office,  and  knock  at  the  shutter,  and  I 
say  to  the  Post-master,  ‘ Will  you  come  and  be  idle  with 
me?  ’ To  which  he  rejoins,  ‘ No,  I really  can’t,  for  I live, 
as  you  may  see,  in  such  a very  little  Post-office,  and  pass 
my  life  behind  such  a very  little  shutter,  that  my  hand, 
when  I put  it  out,  is  as  the  hand  of  a giant  crammed 
through  the  window  of  a dwarf’s  house  at  a fair,  and  I am 
a mere  Post-office  anchorite  in  a cell  much  too  small  for 
him,  and  I can’t  get  out,  and  I can’t  get  in,  and  I have 
no  space  to  be  idle  in,  even  if  I would.’  So,  the  boy,” 
said  Mr.  Goodchild,  concluding  the  tale,  comes  back 
with  the  letters  after  all,  and  lives  happy  never  after- 
wards.” 

But  it  may,  not  unreasonably,  be  asked — while  Francis 
Goodchild  was  wandering  hither  and  thither,  storing  his 
mind  with  perpetual  observation  of  men  and  things,  and 
sincerely  believing  himself  to  be  the  laziest  creature  in  ex- 
istence all  the  time — how  did  Thomas  Idle,  crippled  and 
confined  to  the  house,  contrive  to  get  through  the  hours  of 
the  day? 

Prone  on  the  sofa,  Thomas  made  no  attempt  to  get 
through  the  hours,  but  passively  allowed  the  hours  to  get 
through  him.  Where  other  men  in  his  situation  would 
have  read  books  and  improved  their  minds,  Thomas  slept 
and  rested  his  body.  Where  other  men  would  have  pon- 
dered anxiously  over  their  future  prospects.  Thomas 


52  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OP  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


dreamed  lazily  of  his  past  life.  The  one  solitary  thing  he 
did,  which  most  other  people  would  have  done  in  his  place, 
was  to  resolve  on  making  certain  alterations  and  improve- 
ments in  his  mode  of  existence,  as  soon  as  the  effects  of  the 
misfortune  that  had  overtaken  him  had  all  passed  away. 
Remembering  that  the  current  of  his  life  had  hitherto 
oozed  along  in  one  smooth  stream  of  laziness,  occasionally 
troubled  on  the  surface  by  a slight  passing  ripple  of  indus- 
try, his  present  ideas  on  the  subject  of  self-reform,  inclined 
him — not  as  the  reader  may  be  disposed  to  imagine,  to  pro- 
ject schemes  for  a new  existence  of  enterprise  and  exertion 
— but,  on  the  contrary,  to  resolve  that  he  would  never,  if  he 
could  possibly  help  it,  be  active  or  industrious  again, 
throughout  the  whole  of  his  future  career. 

It  is  due  to  Mr.  Idle  to  relate  that  his  mind  sauntered 
towards  this  peculiar  conclusion  on  distinct  and  logically 
producible  grounds.  After  reviewing,  quite  at  his  ease, 
and  with  many  needful  intervals  of  repose,  the  generally 
placid  spectacle  of  his  past  existence,  he  arrived  at  the  dis- 
covery that  all  the  great  disasters  which  had  tried  his  pa- 
tience and  equanimity  in  early  life,  had  been  caused  by  his 
having  allowed  himself  to  be  deluded  into  imitating  some 
pernicious  example  of  activity  and  industry  that  had  been 
set  him  by  others.  The  trials  to  which  he  here  alludes 
were  three  in  number,  and  may  be  thus  reckoned  up : First, 
the  disaster  of  being  an  unpopular  and  a thrashed  boy  at 
school;  secondly,  the  disaster  of  falling  seriously  ill; 
thirdly,  the  disaster  of  becoming  acquainted  with  a great 
bore. 

The  first  disaster  occurred  after  Thomas  had  been  an  idle 
and  a popular  boy  at  school,  for  some  happy  years.  One 
Christmas-time,  he  was  stimulated  by  the  evil  example  of 
a companion,  whom  he  had  always  trusted  and  liked,  to  be 
untrue  to  himself,  and  to  try  for  a prize  at  the  ensuing 
half-yearly  examination.  He  did  try,  and  he  got  a prize — 
how,  he  did  not  distinctly  know  at  the  moment,  and  cannot 
remember  now.  No  sooner,  however,  had  the  book — Moral 
Hints  to  the  Young  on  the  Value  of  Time — been  placed  in 
his  hands,  than  the  first  troubles  of  his  life  began.  The 
idle  boys  deserted  him,  as  a traitor  to  their  cause.  The 
industrious  boys  avoided  him,  as  a dangerous  interloper; 
one  of  their  number,  who  had  always  won  the  prize  on 
previous  occasions,  expressing  just  resentment  at  the  inva- 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  53 

sion  of  his  privileges  by  calling  Thomas  into  the  play- 
ground, and  then  and  there  administering  to  him  the  first 
sound  and  genuine  thrashing  that  he  had  ever  received  in 
his  life.  Unpopular  from  that  moment,  as  a beaten  boy, 
who  belonged  to  no  side  and  was  rejected  by  all  parties, 
young  Idle  soon  lost  caste  with  his  masters,  as  he  had 
previously  lost  caste  with  his  school-fellows.  He  had  for- 
feited the  comfortable  reputation  of  being  the  one  lazy 
member  of  the  youthful  community  whom  it  was  quite 
hopeless  to  punish.  Never  again  did  he  hear  the  head- 
master say  reproachfully  to  an  industrious  boy  who  had 
committed  a fault,  “ I might  have  expected  this  in  Thomas 
Idle,  but  it  is  inexcusable,  sir,  in  you,  who  know  better.’^ 
Never  more,  after  winning  that  fatal  prize,  did  he  escape 
the  retributive  imposition,  or  the  avenging  birch.  From 
that  time,  the  masters  made  him  work,  and  the  boys  would 
not  let  him  play.  From  that  time  his  social  position  stead- 
ily declined,  and  his  life  at  school  became  a perpetual  bur- 
den to  him. 

So,  again,  with  the  second  disaster.  While  Thomas  was 
lazy,  he  was  a model  of  health.  His  first  attempt  at  active 
exertion  and  his  first  suffering  from  severe  illness  are  con- 
nected together  by  the  intimate  relations  of  cause  and 
effect.  Shortly  after  leaving  school,  he  accompanied  a party 
of  friends  to  a cricket-field,  in  his  natural  and  appropriate 
eharacter  of  spectator  only.  On  the  ground  it  was  discov- 
ered that  the  players  fell  short  of  the  required  number,  and 
facile  Thomas  was  persuaded  to  assist  in  making  u^o  tlie 
3omplement.  At  a certain  appointed  time,  he  was  roused 
from  peaceful  slumber  in  a dry  ditch,  and  placed  before 
:hree  wickets  with  a bat  in  his  hand.  Opposite  to  him,  be- 
iind  three  more  wickets,  stood  one  of  his  bosom  friends, 
filing  the  situation  (as  he  was  informed)  of  bowler.  No 
vords  can  describe  Mr.  Idle's  horror  and  amazement,  when 
le  saw^  this  young  man — on  ordinary  occasions,  the  meekest 
ind  mildest  of  human  beings — suddenly  contract  his  eye- 
)rows,  compress  his  lips,  assume  the  aspect  of  an  infuri- 
ited  savage,  run  back  a few  steps,  then  run  forward,  and, 
vithout  the  slightest  previous  provocation,  hurl  a detest- 
fily  hard  ball  with  all  his  might  straight  at  Thomas's  legs, 
stimulated  to  preternatural  activity  of  body  and  sharpness 
'f  eye  by  the  instinct  of  self-preservation,  Mr.  Idle  con- 
rived,  by  jumping  deftly  aside  at  the  right  moment,  and 


54  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


by  using  his  bat  (ridiculously  narrow  as  it  was  for  the  pur- 
pose) as  a shield,  to  preserve  his  life  and  limbs  from  the 
dastardly  attack  that  had  been  made  on  both,  to  leave  the 
full  force  of  the  deadly  missile  to  strike  his  wicket  instead 
of  his  leg;  and  to  end  the  innings,  so  far  as  his  side  was 
concerned,  by  being  immediately  bowled  out.  Grateful  for 
his  escape  he  was  about  to  return  to  the  dry  ditch,  when  he 
was  peremptorily  stopped,  and  told  that  the  other  side  was 
going  in,’^  and  that  he  was  expected  to  ‘‘  field. His  con- 
ception of  the  whole  art  and  mystery  of  fielding,’’  may  be 
summed  up  in  the  three  words  of  serious  advice  which  he 
privately  administered  to  himself  on  that  trying  occasion — 
avoid  the  ball.  Fortified  by  this  sound  and  salutary  prin- 
ciple, he  took  his  own  course,  impervious  alike  to  ridicule 
and  abuse.  Whenever  the  ball  came  near  him,  he  thought 
of  his  shins,  and  got  out  of  the  way  immediately.  ‘‘  Catch 
it ! ” Stop  it ! ” ‘‘  Pitch  it  up ! ” were  cries  that  passed 

by  him  like  the  idle  wind  that  he  regarded  not.  He  ducked 
under  it,  he  jumped  over  it,  he  whisked  himself  away  from 
it  on  either  side.  Never  once,  through  the  whole  innings 
did  he  and  the  ball  come  together  on  anything  approaching 
to  intimate  terms.  The  unnatural  activity  of  body  which 
was  necessarily  called  forth  for  the  accomplishment  of  this 
result  threw  Thomas  Idle,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  into 
a perspiration.  The  perspiration,  in  consequence  of  his 
want  of  practice  in  the  management  of  that  particular  re- 
sult of  bodily  activity,  was  suddenly  checked;  the  inevi- 
table chill  succeeded;  and  that,  in  its  turn,  was  followed  by 
a fever.  For  the  first  time  since  his  birth,  Mr.  Idle  found 
himself  confined  to  his  bed  for  many  weeks  together,  wasted 
and  worn  by  a long  illness,  of  which  his  own  disastrous 
muscular  exertion  had  been  the  sole  first  cause. 

The  third  occasion  on  which  Thomas  found  reason  to  re- 
proach himself  bitterly  for  the  mistake  of  having  attempted 
to  be  industrious,  was  connected  with  his  choice  of  a call- 
ing in  life.  Having  no  interest  in  the  Church,  he  appro- 
priately selected  the  next  best  profession  for  a lazy  man  in 
England — the  Bar.  Although  the  Benchers  of  the  Inns  of 
Court  have  lately  abandoned  their  good  old  principles,  and 
oblige  their  students  to  make  some  show  of  studying,  in 
Mr.  Idle’s  time  no  such  innovation  as  this  existed.  Young 
men  who  aspired  to  the  honourable  title  of  barrister  were, 
very  properly,  not  asked  to  learn  anything  of  the  law,  but 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


were  merely  required  to  eat  a certain  number  of  dinners  at 
the  table  of  their  Hall,  and  to  pay  a certain  sum  of  money; 
and  were  called  to  the  Bar  as  soon  as  they  could  prove  that 
they  had  sufficiently  complied  with  these  extremely  sensi- 
ble regulations.  Never  did  Thomas  move  more  harmoni- 
ously in  concert  with  his  elders  and  betters  than  when  he 
was  qualifying  himself  for  admission  among  the  barristers 
of  his  native  country.  Never  did  he  feel  more  deeply  what 
real  laziness  was  in  all  the  serene  majesty  of  its  nature, 
than  on  the  memorable  day  when  he  was  called  to  the  bar, 
after  having  carefully  abstained  from  opening  his  law-books 
during  his  period  of  probation,  except  to  fall  asleep  over 
them.  How  he  could  ever  again  have  become  industrious, 
even  for  the  shortest  period,  after  that  great  reward  con- 
ferred upon  his  idleness,  quite  passes  his  comprehension. 
The  kind  benchers  did  everything  they  could  to  show  him 
the  folly  of  exerting  himself.  They  wrote  out  his  proba- 
tionary exercise  for  him,  and  never  expected  him  even  to 
take  the  trouble  of  reading  it  through  when  it  was  written. 
They  invited  him,  with  seven  other  choice  spirits  as  lazy 
as  himself,  to  come  and  be  called  to  the  bar,  while  they 
were  sitting  over  their  wine  and  fruit  after  dinner.  They 
put  his  oaths  of  allegiance,  and  his  dreadful  official  denun- 
ciations of  the  Pope  and  the  Pretender  so  gently  into  his 
mouth,  that  he  hardly  knew  how  the  words  got  there. 
They  wheeled  all  their  chairs  softly  round  from  the  table, 
and.  sat  surveying  the  young  barristers  with  their  backs  to 
their  bottles,  rather  than  stand  up,  or  adjourn  to  hear  the 
exercises  read.  And  when  Mr.  Idle  and  the  seven  unla- 
bouring neophytes,  ranged  in  order,  as  a class,  with  their 
backs  considerately  placed  against  a screen,  had  begun,  in 
rotation,  to  read  the  exercises  which  they  had  not  written, 
even  then,  each  Bencher,  true  to  the  great  lazy  principle  of 
the  whole  proceeding,  stopped  each  neophyte  before  he  had 
stammered  through  his  first  line,  and  bowed  to  him,  and 
told  him  politely  that  he  was  a barrister  from  that  moment. 
This  was  ^11  the  ceremony.  It  was  followed  by  a social 
supper,  and  by  the  presentation,  in  accordance  with  ancient 
custom,  of  a pound  of  sweetmeats  and  a bottle  of  Madeira, 
offered  in  the  way  of  needful  refreshment,  by  each  grateful 
neophyte  to  each  beneficent  Bencher.  It  may  seem  incon- 
ceivable that  Thomas  should  ever  have  forgotten  the  great 
do-nothing  principle  instilled  by  such  a ceremony  as  this; 


5G  the  lazy  tour  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

but  it  is,  nevertheless,  true,  that  certain  designing  students 
of  industrious  habits  found  him  out,  took  advantage  of  his 
easy  humour,  persuaded  him  that  it  was  discreditable  to  be 
a barrister  and  to  know  nothing  whatever  about  the  law, 
and  lured  him,  by  the  force  of  their  own  evil  example,  into 
a conveyancer’s  chambers,  to  make  up  for  lost  time,  and  to 
qiialify  himself  for  practice  at  the  Bar.  After  a fortnight 
of  self-delusion,  the  curtain  fell  from  his  eyes;  he  resumed 
his  natural  character,  and  shut  up  his  books.  But  the  retri- 
bution which  had  hitherto  always  followed  his  little  casual 
errors  of  industry  followed  them  still.  He  could  get  away 
from  the  conveyancer’s  chambers,  but  he  could  not  get 
away  from  one  of  the  pupils,  who  had  taken  a fancy  to 
him, — a tall,  serious,  raw-boned,  hard-working,  disputa- 
tious pupil,  with  ideas  of  his  own  about  reforming  the  Law 
of  Beal  Property,  who  has  been  the  scourge  of  Mr.  Idle’s 
existence  ever  since  the  fatal  day  when  he  fell  into  the 
mistake  of  attempting  to  study  the  law.  Before  that  time 
his  friends  were  all  sociable  idlers  like  himself.  Since 
that  time  the  burden  of  bearing  with  a hard-working  young 
man  has  become  part  of  his  lot  in  life.  Go  where  he  will 
now,  he  can  never  feel  certain  that  the  raw-boned  pupil  is 
not  affectionately  waiting  for  him  round  a corner,  to  tell 
him  a little  more  about  the  Law  of  Beal  Property.  Suffer 
as  he  may  under  the  infliction,  he  can  never  complain,  for 
he  must  always  remember,  with  unavailing  regret,  that  he 
has  his  own  thoughtless  industry  to  thank  for  first  expos- 
ing him  to  the  great  social  calamity  of  knowing  a bore. 

These  events  of  his  past  life,  with  the  significant  results 
that  they  brought  about,  pass  drowsily  through  Thomas 
Idle’s  memory,  while  he  lies  alone  on  the  sofa  at  Allonby 
and  elsewhere,  dreaming  away  the  time  which  his  fellow- 
apprentice  gets  through  so  actively  out  of  doors.  Bemem- 
bering  the  lesson  of  laziness  which  his  past  disasters  teach, 
and  bearing  in  mind  also  the  fact  that  he  is  crippled  in  one 
leg  because  he  exerted  himself  to  go  up  a mountain,  when 
he  ought  to  have  known  that  his  proper  course  of  conduct 
was  to  stop  at  the  bottom  of  it,  he  holds  now,  and  will  for 
the  future  firmly  continue  to  hold,  by  his  new  resolution 
never  to  be  industrious  again,  on  any  pretence  whatever, 
for  the  rest  of  his  life.  The  physical  results  of  his  acci- 
dent have  been  related  in  a previous  chapter.  The  moral 
results  now  stand  on  record;  and,  with  the  enumeration  of 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  57 

these,  that  part  of  the  present  narrative  which  is  occu- 
pied by  the  Episode  of  The  Sprained  Ankle  may  now  per- 
haps be  considered,  in  all  its  aspects,  as  finished  and  com- 
plete. 

“ How  do  you  propose  that  we  get  through  this  present 
afternoon  and  evening?  demanded  Thomas  Idle,  after 
two  or  three  hours  of  the  foregoing  refiections  at  Allonby. 

Mr.  Goodchild  faltered,  looked  out  of  window,  looked  in 
again,  and  said,  as  he  had  so  often  said  before,  “There  is 
the  sea,  and  here  are  the  shrimps; — let  us  eat  ’em!  ” 

But,  the  wise  donkey  was  at  that  moment  in  the  act  of 
bolting:  not  with  the  irresolution  of  his  previous  efforts 
which  had  been  wanting  in  sustained  force  of  character,  but 
with  real  vigour  of  purpose : shaking  the  dust  off  his  mane 
and  hindyfeet  at  Allonby,  and  tearing  away  from  it,  as  if 
he  had  nobly  made  up  his  mind  that  he  never  would  be 
taken  alive.  At  sight  of  this  inspiring  spectacle,  which 
was  visible  from  his  sofa,  Thomas  Idle’  stretched  his  neck 
and  dwelt  upon  it  rapturously. 

“ Francis  Goodchild,”  he  then  said,  turning  to  his  com- 
panion with  a solemn  air,  “ this  is  a delightful  little  Inn, 
excellently  kept  by  the  most  comfortable  of  landladies 

and  the  most  attentive  of  landlords,  but the  donkey’s 

riglit ! ” 

The  woixls,  “There  is  the  sea,  and  here  are  the 

again  trembled  on  the  lips  of  Goodchild,  unaccompanied 
however  by  any  sound. 

“ Let  us  instantly  pack  the  portmanteaus,”  said  Thomas 
Idle,  “ pay  the  bill,  and  order  a fly  out,  with  instructions 
to  the  driver  to  follow  the  donkey ! ” 

Mr.  Goodchild,  who  had  only  wanted  encouragement  to 
disclose  the  real  state  of  his  feelings,  and  who  had  been 
pining  beneath  his  weary  secret,  now  burst  into  tears,  and 
confessed  that  he  thought  another  day  in  the  place  would 
be  the  death  of  him. 

So,^  the  two  idle  apprentices  followed  the  donkey  until 
the  night  was  far  advanced.  Whether  he  was  recaptured 
by  the  town-council,  or  is  bolting  at  this  hour  through  the 
United  Kingdom,  they  know  not.  They  hope  he  may  still 
be  bolting;  if  so,  their  best  wishes  are  with  him. 

It  entered  Mr.  Idle’s  head,  on  the  borders  of  Cumber- 
land, that  there  could  be  no  idler  place  to  stay  at,  except 
by  snatches  of  a few  minutes  each,  than  a railway  station. 


58  the  lazy  tour  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


“ An  intermediate  station  on  a line — a junction — anything 
of  that  sort/^  Thomas  suggested.  Mr.  Goodchild  approved 
of  the  idea  as  eccentric,  and  they  journeyed  on  and  on,  un- 
til they  came  to  such  a station  where  there  was  an  Inn. 

‘‘Here,^^  said  Thomas,  ‘‘we  may  be  luxuriously  lazy, 
other  people  will  travel  for  us,  as  it  were,  and  we  shall 
laugh  at  their  folly.’’ 

It  was  a Junction- Station,  where  the  wooden  razors  be- 
fore mentioned  shaved  the  air  very  often,  and  where  the 
sharp  electric-telegraph  bell  was  in  a very  restless  condi- 
tion. All  manner  of  cross-lines  of  rails  came  zig-zagging 
into  it,  like  a Congress  of  iron  vipers;  and,  a little  way  out 
of  it,  a pointsman  in  an  elevated  signal-box  was  constantly 
going  through  the  motions  of  drawing  immense  quantities 
of  beer  at  a public-house  bar.  In  one  direction, ^confused 
perspectives  of  embankments  and  arches  were  to  be  seen 
from  the  platform;  in  the  other,  the  rails  soon  disentangled 
themselves  into  two  tracks,  and  shot  away  under  a bridge, 
and  curved  round  a corner.  Sidings  were  there,  in  which 
empty  luggage-vans  and  cattle-boxes  often  butted  against 
each  other  as  if  they  couldn’t  agree;  and  warehouses  were 
there,  in  which  great  quantities  of  goods  seemed  to  have 
taken  the  veil  (of  the  consistency  of  tarpaulin),  and  to 
have  retired  from  the  world  without  any  hope  of  getting 
back  to  it.  Eefreshment- rooms  were  there;  one,  for  the 
hungry  and  thirsty  Iron  Locomotives  where  their  coke  and 
water  were  ready,  and  of  good  quality,  for  they  were  dan- 
gerous to  play  tricks  with;  the  other,  for  the  hungry  and 
thirsty  human  Locomotives,  who  might  take  what  they 
could  get,  and  whose  chief  consolation  was  provided  in  the 
form  of  three  terrific  urns  or  vases  of  white  metal,  contain- 
ing nothing,  each  forming  a breast-work  for  a defiant  and 
apparently  much-injured  woman. 

Established  at  this  Station,  Mr.  Thomas  Idle  and  Mr. 
Francis  Goodchild  resolved  to  enjoy  it.  But,  its  contrasts 
were  very  violent,  and  there  was  also  an  infection  in  it. 

First,  as  to  its  contrasts.  They  were  only  two,  but  they 
were  Lethargy  and  Madness.  The  Station  was  either 
totally  unconscious,  or  wildly  raving.  By  day,  in  its  un- 
conscious state,  it  looked  as  if  no  life  could  come  to  it, — as 
if  it  were  all  rust,  dust,  and  ashes — as  if  the  last  train  for 
ever  had  gone  without  issuing  any  Beturn-Tickets — as  if 
the  last  E.ngine  had  uttered  its  last  shriek  and  burst.  One 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  59 


awkward  shave  of  the  air  from  the  wooden  razor,  and 
everything  changed.  Tight  office-doors  flew  open,  panels 
yielded,  books,  newspapers,  travelling-caps  and  wrappers 
broke  out  of  brick  walls,  money  chinked,  conveyances  op- 
pressed by  nightmares  of  luggage  came  careering  into  the 
yard,  porters  started  up  from  secret  places,  ditto  the  much- 
injured  women,  the  shining  bell,  who  lived  in  a little  tray 
on  stilts  by  himself,  flew  into  a man’s  hand  and  clamoured 
violently.  The  pointsman  aloft  in  the  signal-box  made 
the  motions  of  drawing,  with  some  difficulty,  hogsheads  of 
beer.  Down  Train!  More  beer.  Up  Train!  More  beer. 
Cross  Junction  Train!  More  beer.  Cattle  Train!  More 
beer.  Goods  Train ! Simmering,  whistling,  trembling, 
rumbling,  thundering.  Trains  on  the  whole  confusion  of 
intersecting  rails,  crossing  one  another,  bumping  one  an- 
other, hissing  one  another,  backing  to  go  forward,  tearing 
into  distance  to  come  close.  People  frantic.  Exiles  seek- 
ing restoration  to  their  native  carriages,  and  banished  to 
remoter  climes.  More  beer  and  more  bell.  Then,  in  a 
i minute,  the  Station  relapsed  into  stupor  as  the  stoker  of 
the  Cattle  Train,  the  last  to  depart,  went  gliding  out  of  it, 
wiping  the  long  nose  of  his  oil-can  with  a dirty  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

By  night,  in  its  unconscious  state,  the  station  was  not 
so  much  as  visible.  Something  in  the  air,  like  an  enter- 
prising chemist’s  established  in  business  on  one  of  the 
boughs  of  Jack’s  beanstalk,  was  all  that  could  be  discerned 
ef  it  under  the  stars.  In  a moment  it  would  break  out, 
a constellation  of  gas.  In  another  moment,  twenty  rival 
chemists,  on  twenty  rival  beanstalks,  came  into  existence 
Then,  the  Furies  would  be  seen,  waving  their  lurid  torches 
ap  and  down  the  confused  perspectives  of  embankments  and 
arches— -would  be  heard,  too,  wailing  and  shrieking.  Then, 
bhe  Station  would  be  full  of  palpitating  trains,  as  in  the 
lay;  with  the  heightening  difference  that  they  were  not  so 
3learly  seen  as  in  the  day,  whereas  the  station  walls,  start- 
ing forward  under  the  gas,  like  a hippopotamus’s  eyes, 
iazzled  the  human  locomotives  with  the  sauce-bottle,  the 
ffieap  music,  the  bedstead,  the  distorted  range  of  buildings 
where  the  patent  safes  are  made,  the  gentleman  in  the  rain 
with  the  registered  umbrella,  the  lady  returning  from  the 
3all  with  the  registered  respirator,  and  all  their  other  em- 
3ellishments.  And  now,  the  human  locomotives,  creased 


60  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

as  to  their  countenances  and  purblind  as  to  their  eyes, 
would  swarm  forth  in  a heap,  addressing  themselves  to  the 
mysterious  urns  and  the  much-injured  women;  while  the 
iron  locomotives,  dripping  fire  and  water,  shed  their  steam 
about  plentifully,  making  the  dull  oxen  in  their  cages,  with' 
heads  depressed,  and  foam  hanging  from  their  mouths  as 
their  red  looks  glanced  fearfully  at  the  surrounding  terrors, 
seem  as  though  they  had  been  drinking  at  half- frozen  wa- 
ters and  were  hung  with  icicles.  Through  the  same  steam 
would  be  caught  glimpses  of  their  fellow-travellers,  the 
sheep,  getting  their  white  kid  faces  together,  away  from 
the  bars,  and  stuffing  the  interstices  with  trembling  wool. 
Also,  down  among  the  wheels,  of  the  man  with  the  sledge- 
hammer, ringing  the  axles  of  the  fast  night- train;  against 
whom  the  oxen  have  a misgiving  that  he  is  the  man  with 
the  pole-axe  who  is  to  come  by-and-bye,  and  so  the  nearest 
of  them  try  to  get  back,  and  get  a purchase  for  a thrust  at 
him  through  the  bars.  Suddenly,  the  bell  would  ring,  the 
steam  would  stop  with  one  hiss  and  a yell,  the  chemists  on 
the  beanstalks  would  be  busy,  the  avenging  Furies  would 
bestir  themselves,  the  fast  night- train  would  melt  from 
eye  and  ear,  the  other  trains  going  their  ways  more  slowly 
would  be  heard  faintly  rattling  in  the  distance  like  old- 
fashioned  watches  running  down,  the  sauce-bottle  and 
cheap  music  retired  from  view,  even  the  bedstead  went  to 
bed,  and  there  was  no  such  visible  thing  as  the  Station  to 
vex  the  cool  wind  in  its  blowing,  or  perhaps  the  autumn 
lightning,  as  it  found  out  the  iron  rails. 

The  infection  of  the  Station  was  this : — When  it  was  in 
its  raving  state,  the  Apprentices  found  it  impossible  to  be 
there,  without  labouring  under  the  delusion  that  they  were 
in  a hurry.  To  Mr.  Goodchild,  whose  ideas  of  idleness 
were  so  imperfect,  this  was  no  unpleasant  hallucination, 
and  accordingly  that  gentleman  went  through  great  exer- 
tions in  yielding  to  it,  and  running  up  and  down  the  plat- 
form, jostling  everybody,  under  the  impression  that  he  had 
a highly  important  mission  somewhere,  and  had  not  a mo- 
ment to  lose.  But,  to  Thomas  Idle,  this  contagion  was  so 
very  unacceptable  an  incident  of  the  situation,  that  he 
struck  on  the  fourth  day,  and  requested  to  be  moved. 

^^This  place  fills  me  with  a dreadful  seii.satioii,”  said 
ThomaS;  ^‘of  having  something  to  do.  Remove  me,  Fran- 
cis.’^ 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  61 


Where  would  you  like  to  go  next?  ’’  was  the  question 
of  the  ever-engaging  Goodchild. 

have  heard  there  is  a good  old  Inn  at  Lancaster, 
established  in  a fine  old  house : an  Inn  where  they  give 
you  Bride-cake  every  day  after  dinner/’  said  Thomas  Idle. 

Let  us  eat  Bride-cake  without  the  trouble  of  being  mar- 
ried, or  of  knowing  anybody  in  that  ridiculous  dilemma.” 

Mr.  Goodchild,  with  a lover’s  sigh,  assented.  They  de- 
' parted  from  the  Station  in  a violent  hurry  (for  which,  it  is 
unnecessary  to  observe,  there  was  not  the  least  occasion), 
and  were  delivered  at  the  fine  old  house  at  Lancaster,  on 
the  same  night. 

It  is  Mr.  Goodchild’ s opinion,  that  if  a visitor  on  his  ar- 
rival at  Lancaster  could  be  accommodated  with  a pole 
which  would  push  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  some 
yards  farther  off,  it  would  be  better  for  all  parties.  Pro- 
testing against  being  required  to  live  in  a trench,  and 
obliged  to  speculate  all  day  upon  what  the  people  can  pos- 
sibly be  doing  within  a mysterious  opposite  window,  which 
is  a shop- window  to  look  at,  but  not  a shop- window  in  re- 
spect of  its  offering  nothing  for  sale  and  declining  to  give 
any  account  whatever  of  itself,  Mr.  Goodchild  concedes 
Lancaster  to  be  a pleasant  place.  A place  dropped  in  the 
midst  of  a charming  landscape,  a place  with  a fine  ancient 
fragment  of  castle,  a place  of  lovely  walks,  a place  possess- 
ing staid  old  houses  richly  fitted  with  old  Honduras  ma- 
hogany, which  has  grown  so  dark  with  time  that  it  seems 
to  have  got  something  of  a restrospective  mirror-quality 
into  itself,  and  to  show  the  visitor,  in  the  depth  of  its 
grain,  through  all  its  polish,  the  hue  of  the  wretched  slaves 
who  groaned  long  ago  under  old  Lancaster  merchants. 
And  Mr.  Goodchild  adds  that  the  stones  of  Lancaster  do 
sometimes  whisper,  even  yet,  of  rich  men  passed  away — 
upon  whose  great  prosperity  some  of  these  old  doorways 
frowned  sullen  in  the  brightest  weather— that  their  slave- 
gain  turned  to  curses,  as  the  Arabian  Wizard’s  money 
turned  to  leaves,  and  that  no  good  ever  came  of  it,  even 
unto  the  third  and  fourth  generations,  until  it  was  wasted 
and  gone. 

It  was  a gallant  sight  to  behold,  the  Sunday  procession 
of  the  Iiancaster  elders  to  Church— all  in  black,  and  look- 
ing fearfully  like  a funeral  without  the  Body — under  the 
escort  of  Three  Beadles. 


f)2  the  lazy  tour  op  two  idle  apprentices. 


Think,”  said  Francis,  as  he  stood  at  the  Inn  window, 
admiring,  of  being  taken  to  the  sacred  edifice  by  three 
P>eadles ! T have,  in  my  early  time,  been  taken  out  of  it 
by  one  Beadle;  but,  to  be  taken  into  it  by  three,  O Thomas, 
is  a distinction  I shall  never  enjoy ! ” 


CHAPTER  IV. 

When  Mr.  Goodchild  had  looked  out  of  the  Lancaster 
Inn  window  for  two  hours  on  end,  with  great  perseverance, 
he  began  to  entertain  a misgiving  that  he  was  growing  in- 
dustrious. He  therefore  set  himself  next,  to  explore  the 
country  from  the  tops  of  all  the  steep  hills  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

He  came  back  at  dinner-time,  red  and  glowing,  to  tell 
Thomas  Idle  what  he  had  seen.  Thomas,  on  his  back  read- 
ing, listened  with  great  composure,  and  asked  him  whether 
he  really  had  gone  up  those  hills,  and  bothered  himself 
with  those  views,  and  walked  all  those  miles? 

‘‘Because  I want  to  know,”  added  Thomas,  “what  you 
would  say  of  it,  if  you  were  obliged  to  do  it?  ” 

“It  would  be  different,  then,”  said  Francis.  “It  would 
be  work,  then;  now,  it’s  play.” 

“Play!”  replied  Thomas  Idle,  utterly  repudiating  the 
reply.  “ Play ! Here  is  a man  goes  systematically  tearing 
himself  to  pieces,  and  putting  himself  through  an  inces- 
sant course  of  training  as  if  he  were  always  under  articles 
to  fight  a match  for  the  champion’s  belt,  and  he  calls  it 
Play ! Play ! ” exclaimed  Thomas  Idle,  scornfully  contem- 
plating his  one  boot  in  the  air.  “You  canH  play.  You 
don’t  know  what  it  is.  You  make  work  of  everything.” 
The  bright  Goodchild  amiably  smiled. 

“ So  you  do,”  said  Thomas.  “ I mean  it.  To  me  you  are 
an  absolutely  terrible  fellow.  You  do  nothing  like  another 
man.  Where  another  fellow  would  fall  into  a footbath  of 
action  or  emotion,  you  fall  into  a mine.  Where  any  other 
fellow  would  be  a painted  butterfly,  you  are  a fiery  dragon. 
Where  another  man  would  stake  a sixpence,  you  stake  your 
existence.  If  you  were  to  go  up  in  a balloon,  you  would 
make  for  Heaven;  and  if  you  were  to  dive  into  the  depths 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  63 

of  the  earth,  nothing  short  of  the  other  place  would  con- 
tent you.  What  a fellow  you  are,  Francis ! ” 

The  cheerful  Goodchild  laughed. 

“ It’s  all  very  well  to  laugh,  but  I wonder  you  don’t  feel 
it  to  be  serious,”  said  Idle.  “A  man  who  can  do  nothing 
by  halves  appears  to  me  to  be  a fearful  man.” 

“Tom,  Tom,”  returned  Goodchild,  “if  I can  do  nothing 
by  halves,  and  be  nothing  by  halves,  it’s  pretty  clear  that 
you  must  take  me  as  a whole,  and  make  the  best  of  me.” 
With  this  philosophical  rejoinder,  the  airy  Goodchild 
clapped  Mr.  Idle  on  the  shoulder  in  a final  manner,  and 
they  sat  down  to  dinner. 

“By  the  bye,”  said  Goodchild,  “I  have  been  over  a 
lunatic  asylum  too,  since  I have  been  out.” 

“He  has  been,”  exclaimed  Thomas  Idle,  casting  up  his 
eyes,  “over  a lunatic  asylum!  Not  content  with  being  as 
great  an  Ass  as  Captain  Barclay  in  the  pedestrian  way,  he 
makes  a Lunacy  Commissioner  of  himself — for  nothing  I ” 
“An  immense  place,”  said  Goodchild,  “admirable  offices, 
very  good  arrangements,  very  good  attendants;  altogether 
a remarkable  place.  ” 

“And  what  did  you  see  there?  ” asked  Mr.  Idle,  adapt- 
ing  Hamlet’s  advice  to  the  occasion,  and  assuming  the  vir- 
tue of  interest,  though  he  had  it  not. 

“The  usual  thing,”  said  Francis  Goodchild,  with  a sigh. 
“Long  groves  of  blighted  men-and- women- trees;  inter- 
minable avenues  of  hopeless  faces;  numbers,  without  the 
slightest  power  of  really  combining  for  any  earthly  purpose; 
a society  of  human  creatures  who  have  nothing  in  common 
but  that  they  have  all  lost  the  power  of  being  humanly  so- 
cial with  one  another.” 

“Take  a glass  of  wine  with  me,”  said  Thomas  Idle, 
“and  let  us  be  social.” 

“In  one  gallery,  Tom,”  pursued  Francis  Goodchild, 

“ which  looked  to  me  about  the  length  of  the  Long  Walk 

at  Windsor,  more  or  less ” 

“Probably  less,”  observed  Thomas  Idle. 

“ In  one  gallery,  which  was  otherwise  clear  of  patients 
(for  they  were  all  out),  there  was  a poor  little  dark-chinned, 
meagre  man,  with  a perplexed  brow  and  a pensive  face, 
stooping  low  over  the  matting  on  the  floor,  and  picking  out 
with  his  thumb  and  forefinger  the  course  of  its  fibres.  The 
afternoon  sun  was  slanting  in  at  the  large  end- window,  and 


64  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


there  were  cross  patches  of  light  and  shade  all  down  the 
vista,  made  by  the  unseen  windows  and  the  open  doors  of 
the  little  sleeping  cells  on  either  side.  In  about  the  centre 
of  the  perspective,  under  an  arch,  regardless  of  the  pleas- 
ant weather,  regardless  of  the  solitude,  regardless  of  ap- 
proaching footsteps  was  the  poor  little  dark-chinned, 
meagre  man,  poring  over  the  matting.  ‘ What  are  you 
doing  there?  ^ said  my  conductor,  when  we  came  to  him. 
He  looked  up,  and  pointed  to  the  matting.  ^ I wouldn’t 
do  that,  I think,’  said  my  conductor,  kindly;  ‘if  I were 
you,  I would  go  and  read,  or  I would  lie  down  if  I felt 
tired;  but  I wouldn’t  do  that.’  The  patient  considered  a 
moment,  and  vacantly  answered,  ‘No,  sir,  I won’t;  I’ll — 
I’ll  go  and  read,’  and  so  he  lamely  shuffled  away  into  one 
of  the  little  rooms.  I turned  my  head  before  we  had  gone 
many  paces.  He  had  already  come  out  again,  and  was 
again  poring  over  the  matting,  and  tracking  out  its  fibres 
with  his  thumb  and  forefinger.  I stopped  to  look  at  him, 
and  it  came  into  my  mind,  that  probably  the  course  of 
those  fibres  as  they  plaited  in  and  out,  over  and  under,  was 
the  only  course  of  things  in  the  whole  wide  world  that  it 
was  left  to  him  to  understand — that  his  darkening  intel- 
lect had  narrowed  down  to  the  small  cleft  of  light  which 
showed  him,  ‘ This  piece  was  twisted  this  way,  went  in 
here,  passed  under,  came  out  there,  was  carried  on  away 
here  to  the  right  where  I now  put  my  finger  on  it,  and  in 
this  progress  of  events,  the  thing  was  made  and  came  to 
be  here.’  Then,  I wondered  whether  he  looked  into  the 
matting,  next,  to  see  if  it  could  show  him  anything  of  the 
process  through  which  he  came  to  be  there,  so  strangely 
poring  over  it.  Then,  I thought  how  all  of  us,  God  help 
us ! in  our  different  ways  are  poring  over  our  bits  of  mat- 
ting, blindly  enough,  and  what  confusions  and  mysteries 
we  make  in  the  pattern.  I had  a sadder  fellow-feeling 
with  the  little  dark-chinned,  meagre  man,  by  that  time, 
and  I came  away.” 

Mr.  Idle  diverting,  the  conversation  to  grouse,  custards, 
and  bride-cake,  Mr.  Goodchild  followed  in  the  same  direc- 
tion. The  bride-cake  was  as  bilious  and  indigestible  as  if 
a real  Bride  had  cut  it,  and  the  dinner  it  completed  was  an 
admirable  performance. 

The  house  was  a genuine  old  house  of  a very  quaint  de- 
scription, teeming  with  old  carvings,  and  beams,  and  panels. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OP  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  05 


and  having  an  excellent  old  staircase,  with  a gallery  or  up- 
per staircase,  cut  off  from  it  by  a curious  fence-work  of  old 
oak,  or  of  the  old  Honduras  Mahogany  wood.  It  was,  and 

is,  and  will  be,  for  many  a long  year  to  come,  a remarkably 
picturesque  house;  and  a certain  grave  mystery  lurking  in 
the  depth  of  the  old  mahogany  panels,  as  if  they  were  so 
many  deep  pools  of  dark  water — such,  indeed,  as  they  had 
been  much  among  when  they  were  trees — gave  it  a very 
inysterious  character  after  nightfall. 

When  Mr.  Goodchild  and  Mr.  Idle  had  first  alighted  at 
the  door,  and  stepped  into  the  sombre  handsome  old  hall, 
they  had  been  received  by  half-a-dozen  noiseless  old  men 
in  black,  all  dressed  exactly  alike,  who  glided  up  the  stairs 
with  the  obliging  landlord  and  waiter — but  without  appear- 
ing to  get  into  their  way,  or  to  mind  whether  they  did  or 
no — and  who  had  filed  off  to  the  right  and  left  on  the  old 
staircase,  as  the  guests  entered  their  sitting-room.  It  was 
then  broad,  bright  day.  But,  Mr.  Goodchild  had  said, 
when  their  door  was  shut,  Who  on  earth  are  those  old 
men?  And  afterwards,  both  on  going  out  and  coming  in, 
he  had  noticed  that  there  were  no  old  men  to  be  seen. 

Neither,  had  the  old  men,  or  any  one  of  the  old  men,  re- 
appeared since.  The  two  friends  had  passed  a night  in  the 
house,  but  had  seen  nothing  more  of  the  old  men.  Mr. 
Goodchild,  in  rambling  about  it,  had  looked  along  passages, 
and  glanced  in  at  doorways,  but  had  encountered  no  old 
men;  neither  did  it  appear  that  any  old  men  were,  by  any 
member  of  the  establishment,  missed  or  expected. 

Another  odd  circumstance  impressed  itself  on  their  at- 
tention. It  was,  that  the  door  of  their  sitting-room  was 
never  left  untouched  for  a quarter  of  an  hour.  It  was 
opened  with  hesitation,  opened  with  confidence,  opened  a 
little  way,  opened  a good  way, — always  clapped-to  again 
without  a word  of  explanation.  They  were  reading,  they 
were  writing,  they  were  eating,  they  were  drinking,  they 
were  talking,  they  were  dozing;  the  door  was  always 
opened  at  an  unexpected  moment,  and  they  looked  towards 

it,  and  it  was  clapped-to  again,  and  nobody  was  to  be  seen. 
When  this  had  happened  fifty  times  or  so,  Mr.  Goodchild 
had  said  to  his  companion,  jestingly:  ^^I  begin  to  think, 
Tom,  there  was  something  wrong  with  those  six  old  men.” 

Night  had  come  again,  and  they  had  been  writing  for 
two  or  three  hours : writing,  in  short,  a portion  of  the  lazy 
5 


66  TPIE  LAZY  TOUR  OP  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


notes  from  which  these  lazy  sheets  are  taken.  They  had 
left  off  writing,  and  glasses  were  on  the  table  between 
them.  The  house  was  closed  and  quiet.  Around  the  head 
of  Thomas  Idle,  as  he  lay  upon  his  sofa,  hovered  light 
wreaths  of  fragrant  smoke.  The  temples  of  Francis  Good- 
child,  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  two  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head,  and  his  legs  crossed,  were  sim- 
ilarly decorated. 

They  had  been  discussing  several  idle  subjects  of  specu- 
lation, not  omitting  the  strange  old  men,  and  were  still  so 
occupied,  when  Mr.  Goodchild  abruptly  changed  his  atti- 
tude to  wind  up  his  watch.  They  were  just  becoming 
drowsy  enough  to  be  stopped  in  their  talk  by  any  such 
slight  check.  Thomas  Idle,  who  was  speaking  at  the  mo- 
ment, paused  and  said,  How  goes  it?  ’’ 

^^One,”  said  Goodchild. 

As  if  he  had  ordered  One  old  man,  and  the  order  were 
promptly  executed  (truly,  all  orders  were  so,  in  that  excel- 
lent hotel),  the  door  opened,  and  One  old  man  stood  there. 

He  did  not  come  in,  but  stood  with  the  door  in  his  hand. 

‘^One  of  the  six,  Tom,  at  last!’’  said  Mr.  Goodchild,  in 
a surprised  whisper. — Sir,  your  pleasure?  ” 

Sir,  your  pleasure?  ” said  the  One  old  man. 
didn’t  ring.” 

‘^The  bell  did,”  said  the  One  old  man. 

He  said  Bell,  in  a deep  strong  way,  that  would  have 
expressed  the  church  Bell. 

''I  had  the  pleasure,  I believe,  of  seeing  you,  yester- 
day?” said  Goodchild. 

‘‘  I cannot  undertake  to  say  for  certain,”  was  the  grim 
reply  of  the  One  old  man. 

I think  you  saw  me.  Did  you  not?  ” 

''Saw  you?’^  said  the  old  man.  "0  yes,  I saw  you. 
But,  I see  many  who  never  see  me.” 

A chilled,  slow,  earthy,  fixed  old  man.  A cadaverous 
old  man  of  measured  speech.  An  old  man  who  seemed  as 
unable  to  wink,  as  if  his  eyelids  had  been  nailed  to  his  fore- 
head. An  old  man  whose  eyes — two  spots  of  fire — had  no 
more  motion  than  if  they  had  been  connected  with  the  back 
of  his  skull  by  screws  driven  through  it,  and  riveted  and  | 
bolted  outside,  among  his  grey  hair. 

The  night  had  turned  so  cold,  to  Mr.  Goodchild ’s  sensa- 
tions, that  he  shivered.  He  remarked  lightly,  and  half 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  67 

apologetically,  think  somebody  is  walking  over  my 
grave 

^^No,”  said  the  weird  old  man,  there  is  no  one  there.” 

Mr.  Goodchild  looked  at  Idle,  but  Idle  lay  with  his 
head  enwreathed  in  smoke. 

^^ISTo  one  there?”  said  Goodchild. 

There  is  no  one  at  your  grave,  I assure  you,”  said  the 
old  man. 

He  had  come  in  and  shut  the  door,  and  he  now  sat  down. 
He  did  not  bend  himself  to  sit,  as  other  people  do,  but 
seemed  to  sink  bolt  upright,  as  if  in  water,  until  the  chair 
stopped  him. 

My  friend,  Mr.  Idle,”  said  Goodchild,  extremely  anxious 
to  introduce  a third  person  into  the  conversation. 

I am,  ” said  the  old  man,  without  looking  at  him,  at 
Mr.  Idle’s  service.” 

^‘If  you  are  an  old  inhabitant  of  this  place,”  Francis 
Goodchild  resumed : 

Yes.” 

Perhaps  you  can  decide  a point  my  friend  and  I were 
in  doubt  upon,  this  morning.  They  hang  condemned  crim- 
inals at  the  Castle,  I believe?  ” 

‘‘/believe  so,”  said  the  old  man. 

“ Are  their  faces  turned  towards  that  noble  prospect?  ” 

“Your  face  is  turned,” ‘replied  the  old  man,  “to  the 
Castle  wall.  When  you  are  tied  up,  you  see  its  stones  ex- 
panding and  contracting  violently,  and  a similar  expansion 
and  contraction  seem  to  take  place  in  your  own  head  and 
breast.  Then,  there  is  a rush  of  fire  and  an  earthquake, 
and  the  Castle  springs  into  the  air,  and  you  tumble  down  a 
precipice.” 

His  cravat  appeared  to  trouble  him.  He  put  his  hand 
to  his  throat,  and  moved  his  neck  from  side  to  side.  He 
was  an  old  man  of  a swollen  character  of  face,  and  his  nose 
'.was  immovably  hitched  up  on  one  side,  as  if  by  a little 
^‘hook  inserted  in  that  nostril.  Mr.  Goodchild  felt  exceed- 
ingly uncomfortable,  and  began  to  think  the  night  was  hot,  • 
and  not  cold. 

“A  strong  description,  sir,”  he  observed. 

“A  strong  sensation,”  the  old  man  rejoined. 

Again,  Mr.  Goodchild  looked  to  Mr.  Thomas  Idle;  but 
^Thomas  lay  on  his  back  with  his  face  attentively  turned 
towards  the  One  old  man,  and  made  no  sign.  At  this  time 


(>8  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

Mr.  Goodchild  believed  that  he  saw  threads  of  fire  stretch 
from  the  old  man’s  eyes  to  his  own,  and  there  attach  them- 
selves. (Mr.  Goodchild  writes  the  present  account  of  his 
experience,  and,  with  the  utmost  solemnity,  j^rotests  that 
he  had  the  strongest  sensation  upon  him  of  being  forced  to 
look  at  the  old  man  along  those  two  fiery  films,  from  that 
moment. ) 

I must  tell  it  to  you,”  said  the  old  man,  with  a ghastly 
and  a stony  stare. 

‘‘  What?  ” asked  Francis  Goodchild. 

“ You  know  where  it  took  place.  Yonder!  ” 

Whether  he  pointed  to  the  room  above,  or  to  the  room 
below,  or  to  any  room  in  that  old  house,  or  to  a room  in 
some  other  old  house  in  that  old  town,  Mr.  Goodchild  was 
not,  nor  is,  nor  ever  can  be,  sure.  He  was  confused  by  the 
circumstance  that  the  right  forefinger  of  the  One  old  man 
seemed  to  dip  itself  in  one  of  the  threads  of  fire,  light  it- 
self, and  make  a fiery  start  in  the  air,  as  it  pointed  some- 
where. Having  pointed  somewhere,  it  went  out. 

You  know  she  was  a Bride,”’  said  the  old  man. 
know  they  still  send  up  Bride-cake,”  Mr.  Goodchild 
faltered.  ^^This  is  a very  oppressive  air.” 

“ She  was  a Bride,”  said  the  old  man.  She  was  a fair, 
flaxen-haired,  large-eyed  girl,  who  had  no  character,  no 
purpose.  A weak,  credulous,  incapable,  helpless  nothing. 
Not  like  her  mother.  No,  no.  It  was  her  father  whose 
character  she  reflected. 

Her  mother  had  taken  care  to  secure  everything  to  her- 
self, for  her  own  life,  when  the  father  of  this  girl  (a  child 
at  that  time)  died — of  sheer  helplessness;  no  other  disorder 
— and  then  He  renewed  the  acquaintance  that  had  once 
subsisted  between  the  mother  and  Him.  He  had  been  put 
aside  for  the  flaxen- haired,  large-eyed  man  (or  nonentity) 
with  Money.  He  could  overlook  that  for  Money.  He 
wanted  compensation  in  Money. 

“ So,  he  returned  to  the  side  of  that  woman  the  mother, 
made  love  to  her  again,  danced  attendance  on  her,  and  sub- 
mitted himself  to  her  whims.  She  wreaked  upon  him  ev- 
ery whim  she  had,  or  could  invent.  He  bore  it.  And  the 
more  he  bore,  the  more  he  wanted  compensation  in  Money, 
and  the  more  he  was  resolved  to  have  it. 

^^But,  lo!  Before  he  got  it,  she  cheated  him.  In  one 
of  her  imperious  states,  she  froze,  and  never  thawed  again. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES,  69 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  head  one  night,  uttered  a cry, 
stiffened,  lay  in  that  attitude  certain  hours,  and  died. 
And  he  had  got  no  compensation  from  her  in  Money,  yet. 
Blight  and  Murrain  on  her!  Not  a penny. 

He  had  hated  her  throughout  that  second  pursuit,  and 
had  longed  for  retaliation  on  her.  He  now  counterfeited 
her  signature  to  an  instrument,  leaving  all  she  had  to  leave, 
to  her  daughter — ten  years  old  then — to  whom  the  property 
passed  absolutely,  and  appointing  himself  the  daughter’s 
Gup'dian.  When  He  slid  it  under  the  pillow  of  the  bed  on 
which  she  lay.  He  bent  down  in  the  deaf  ear  of  Death,  and 
whispered : ‘ Mistress  Pride,  I have  determined  a long  time 
that,  dead  or  alive,  you  must  make  me  compensation  in 
Money.  ^ 

So,  now  there  were  only  two  left.  Which  two  were. 
He,  and  the  fair  flaxen-haired,  large-eyed  foolish  daughter, 
who  afterwards  became  the  Bride. 

He  put  her  to  school.  In  a secret,  dark,  oppressive, 
ancient  house,  he  put  her  to  school  with  a watchful  and 
unscrupulous  woman.  ‘My  worthy  lady,’  he  said,  ‘here 
is  a mind  to  be  formed;  will  you  help  me  to  form  it?’ 
She  accepted  the  trust.  For  which  she,  too,  wanted  com- 
pensation in  Money,  and  had  it. 

“ The  girl  was  formed  in  the  fear  of  him,  and  in  the  con- 
viction, that  there  was  no  escape  from  him.  She  was 
taught,  from  the  first,  to  regard  him  as  her  future  husband 
— the  man  who  must  marry  her — the  destiny  that  over- 
shadowed her — the  appointed  certainty  that  could  never  be 
evaded.  The  poor  fool  was  soft  white  wax  in  their  hands, 
and  took  the  impression  that  they  put  upon  her.  It  hard- 
ened with  time.  It  became  a part  of  herself.  Inseparable 
from  herself,  and  only  to  be  torn  away  from  her,  by  tear- 
ing life  away  from  her. 

“Eleven  years  she  had  lived  in  the  dark  house  and  its 
gloomy  garden.  He  was  jealous  of  the  very  light  and  air 
getting  to  her,  and  they  kept  her  close.  He  stopped  the 
wide  chimneys,  shaded  the  little  windows,  left  the  strong- 
stemmed ivy  to  wander  where  it  would  over  the  house- 
front,  the  moss  to  accumulate  on  the  untrimmed  fruit-trees 
in  the  red- walled  garden,  the  weeds  to  over- run  its  green 
and  yellow  walks.  He  surrounded  her  with  inmges  of  sor- 
row and  desolation.  He  caused  her  to  be  filled  with  fears 
of  the  place  and  of  the  stories  that  were  told  of  it,  and  then 


70  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

on  pretext  of  correcting  them,  to  be  left  in  it  in  solitude, 
or  made  to  shrink  about  it  in  the  dark.  When  her  mind 
was  most  depressed  and  fullest  of  terrors,  then,  he  would 
come  out  of  one  of  the  hiding-places  from  which  he  over- 
looked her,  and  present  himself  as  her  sole  resource. 

Thus,  by  being  from  her  childhood  the  one  embodiment 
her  life  presented  to  her  of  power  to  coerce  and  power  to 
relieve,  power  to  bind  and  power  to  loose,  the  ascendency 
over  her  weakness  was  secured.  She  was  twenty-one  years 
and  twenty-one  days  old,  when  he  brought  her  home  to  the 
gloomy  house,  his  half-witted,  frightened,  and  submissive 
Bride  of  three  weeks. 

He  had  dismissed  the  governess  by  that  time — what  he 
had  left  to  do,  he  could  best  do  alone — and  they  came  back, 
upon  a rainy  night,  to  the  scene  of  her  long  preparation. 
She  turned  to  him  upon  the  threshold,  as  the  rain  was 
dripping  from  the  porch,  and  said : 

‘ O sir,  it  is  the  Death-watch  ticking  for  me ! ’ 

‘ Well ! ’ he  answered.  ‘ And  if  it  were?  ’ 

‘ 0 sir ! ’ she  returned  to  him,  ‘ look  kindly  on  me,  and 
be  merciful  to  me ! I beg  your  pardon.  I will  do  anything 
you  wish,  if  you  will  only  forgive  me ! ’ 

^‘That  had  become  the  poor  fooFs  constant  song:  ‘ I beg 
your  pardon,’  and  ‘ Forgive  me ! ’ 

She  was  not  worth  hating;  he  felt  nothing  but  con- 
tempt for  her.  But,  she  had  long  been  in  the  way,  and  he 
had  long  been  weary,  and  the  work  was  near  its  end,  and 
had  to  be  worked  out. 

^ You  fool,’  he  said.  ‘ Go  up  the  stairs ! ’ 

She  obeyed  very  quickly,  murmuring,  ‘ I will  do  any- 
thing you  wish!  ’ When  he  came  into  the  Bride’s  Cham- 
ber, having  been  a little  retarded  by  the  heavy  fastenings 
of  the  great  door  (for  they  were  alone  in  the  house,  and  he 
had  arranged  that  the  people  who  attended  on  them  should 
come  and  go  in  the  day),  he  found  her  withdrawn  to  the 
furthest  corner,  and  there  standing  pressed  against  the 
panelling  as  if  she  would  have  shrunk  through  it:  her 
flaxen  hair  all  wild  about  her  face,  and  her  large  eyes  star- 
ing at  him  in  vague  terror. 

‘ What  are  you  afraid  of?  Come  and  sit  down  by  me.’ 
‘ I will  do  anything  you  wish.  I beg  your  pardon,  sir 
Forgive  me!  ’ Her  monotonous  tune  as  usual. 

^ Ellen,  here  is  a writing  that  you  must  write  out  to- 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  71 

morrow,  in  your  own  hand.  You  may  as  well  be  seen  by 
others,  busily  engaged  upon  it.  When  you  have  written 
it  all  fairly,  and  corrected  all  mistakes,  call  in  any  two 
people  there  may  be  about  the  house,  and  sign  your  name  to 
it  before  them.  Then,  put  it  in  your  bosom  to  keep  it  safe, 
and  when  I sit  here  again  to-morrow  night,  give  it  to  me.’ 

‘ I will  do  it  all,  with  the  greatest  care.  I will  do  any- 
thing you  wish.’ 

‘‘ ' Don’t  shake  and  tremble,  then.’ 

''  1 1 will  try  my  utmost  not  to  do  it— if  you  will  only 
forgive  me ! ’ 

^‘Next  day,  she  sat  down  at  her  desk,  and  did  as  she 
had  been  told.  He  often  passed  in  and  out  of  the  room,  to 
observe  her,  and  always  saw  her  slowly  and  laboriously 
writing : repeating  to  herself  the  words  she  copied,  in  ap- 
pearance quite  mechanically,  and  without  caring  or  en- 
deavouring to  comprehend  them,  so  that  she  did  her  task. 
He  saw  her  follow  the  directions  she  had  received,  in  all 
particulars;  and  at  night,  when  they  were  alone  again  in 
the  same  Bride’s  Chamber,  and  he  drew  his  chair  to  the 
hearth,  she  timidly  approached  him  from  her  distant  seat, 
took  the  paper  from  her  bosom,  and  gave  it  into  his  hand. 

It  secured  all  her  possessions  to  him,  in  the  event  of 
her  death.  He  put  her  before  him,  face  to  face,  that  he 
might  look  at  her  steadily ; and  he  asked  her,  in  so  many 
plain  words,  neither  fewer  nor  more,  did  she  know  that? 

“ There  were  spots  of  ink  upon  the  bosom  of  her  white 
dress,  and  they  made  her  face  look  whiter  and  her  eyes 
look  larger  as  she  nodded  her  head.  There  were  spots  of 
ink  upon  the  hand  with  which  she  stood  before  him  ner- 
vously plaiting  and  folding  her  white  skirts. 

He  took  her  by  the  arm,  and  looked  her,  yet  more 
closely  and  steadily,  in  the  face.  ‘Now,  die!  I have 
done  with  you.  ’ 

She  shrunk,  and  uttered  a low,  suppressed  cry. 

TP  kill  you.  I will  not  endanger  mv 

life  for  yours.  Die ! ’ 

''He  sat  before  her  in  the  gloomy  Bride’s  Chamber,  day 
after  night,  looking  the  word  at  her  when 
he  did  not  utter  it.  As  often  as  her  large  unmeaning  eyes 
were  raised  from  the  hands  in  which  she  rocked  her  head, 
to  the  stern  figure,  sitting  with  crossed  arms  and  knitted 
torehead,  in  the  chair,  they  read  in  it,  ‘ Die ! ’ When  she 


72  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

dropped  asleep  in  exhaustion,  she  was  called  back  to  shud- 
dering consciousness,  by  the  whisper,  ^ Die ! ^ When  she 
fell  upon  her  old  entreaty  to  be  pardoned,  she  was  an- 
swered, ‘ Die ! ’ When  she  had  out- watched  and  out-suf- 
fered the  long  night,  and  the  rising  sun  flamed  into  the 
sombre  room,  she  heard  it  hailed  with,  ‘ Another  day  and 
not  dead? — Die ! ^ 

“ Shut  up  in  the  deserted  mansion,  aloof  from  all  man- 
kind, and  engaged  alone  in  such  a struggle  without  any 
respite,  it  came  to  this — that  either  he  must  die,  or  she. 
He  knew  it  very  well,  and  concentrated  his  strength 
against  her  feebleness.  Hours  upon  hours  he  held  her  by 
the  arm  when  her  arm  was  black  where  he  held  it,  and 
bade  her  Die ! 

“ It  was  done,  upon  a windy  morning,  before  sunrise.  He 
computed  the  time  to  be  half -past  four;  but,  his  forgotten 
watch  had  run  down,  and  he  could  not  be  sure.  She  had 
broken  away  from  him  in  the  night,  with  loud  and  sudden 
cries — the  first  of  that  kind  to  which  she  had  given  vent — 
and  he  had  had  to  put  his  hands  over  her  mouth.  Since 
then,  she  had  been  quiet  in  the  corner  of  the  panelling 
where  she  had  sunk  down;  and  he  had  left  her,  and  had 
gone  back  with  his  folded  arms  and  his  knitted  forehead  to 
his  chair. 

“ Paler  in  the  pale  light,  more  colourless  than  ever  in  the 
leaden  dawn,  he  saw  her  coming,  trailing  herself  along  the 
floor  towards  him — a white  wreck  of  hair,  and  dress,  and 
wild  eyes,  pushing  itself  on  by  an  irresolute  and  bending 
hand. 

“ ‘ O,  forgive  me ! I will  do  anything.  0,  sir,  pray  tell 
me  I may  live ! ’ 

“ ‘ Die ! ' 

“ ‘ Are  you  so  resolved?  Is  there  no  hope  for  me?  ’ 

Die ! ’ 

“ Her  large  eyes  strained  themselves  with  wonder  and 
fear;  wonder  and  fear  changed  to  reproach;  reproach  to 
blank  nothing.  It  was  done.  He  was  not  at  first  so  sure 
it  was  done,  but  that  the  morning  sun  was  hanging  jewels 
in  her  hair — he  saw  the  diamond,  emerald,  and  ruby,  glit- 
tering among  it  in  little  points,  as  he  stood  looking  down 
at  her — when  he  lifted  her  and  laid  her  on  her  bed. 

“ She  was  soon  laid  in  the  ground.  And  now  they  were 
all  gone,  and  he  had  compensated  himself  well. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  73 


“ He  had  a mind  to  travel.  Not  that  he  meant  to  waste 
his  Money,  for  he  was  a pinching  man  and  liked  his  Money 
dearly  (like  nothing  else,  indeed),  but,  that  he  had  grown 
tired  of  the  desolate  house  and  wished  to  turn  his  back 
upon  it  and  have  done  with  it.  But,  the  house  was  worth 
Money,  and  Money  must  not  be  thrown  away.  He  deter- 
mined to  sell  it  before  he  went.  That  it  might  look  the 
less  wretched  and  bring  a better  price,  he  hired  some  la- 
bourers to  work  in  the  overgrown  garden;  to  cut  out  the 
dead  wood,  trim  the  ivy  that  drooped  in  heavy  masses  over 
the  windows  and  gables,  and  clear  the  walks  in  which  the 
weeds  were  growing  mid-leg  high. 

^‘He  worked,  himself,  along  with  them.  He  worked 
later  than  they  did,  and,  one  evening  at  dusk,  was  left 
working  alone,  with  his  bill- hook  in  his  hand.  One  au- 
tumn evening,  when  the  Bride  was  five  weeks  dead. 

^ It  grows  too  dark  to  work  longer,’  he  said  to  himself, 
‘ I must  give  over  for  the  night.’ 

He  detested  the  house,  and  was  loath  to  enter  it.  He 
looked  at  the  dark  porch  waiting  for  him  like  a tomb,  and 
felt  that  it  was  an  accursed  house.  Near  to  the  porch,  and 
near  to  where  he  stood,  was  a tree  whose  branches  waved 
before  the  old  bay-window  of  the  Bride’s  Chamber,  where 
it  had  been  done.  The  tree  swung  suddenly,  and  made 
him  start.  It  swung  again,  although  the  night  was  still. 
Looking  up  into  it,  he  saw  a figure  among  the  branches. 

^Ht  was  the  figure  of  a young  man.  The  face  looked 
down,  as  his  looked  up;  the  branches  cracked  and  swayed; 
the  figure  rapidly  descended,  and  slid  upon  its  feet  before 
him.  A slender  youth  of  about  her  age,  with  long  light 
brown  hair. 

“ ‘ What  thief  are  you?  ’ he  said,  seizing  the  youth  by 
the  collar. 

The  young  man,  in  shaking  himself  free,  swung  him  a 
blow  with  his  arm  across  the  face  and  throat.  They 
closed,  but  the  young  man  got  from  him  and  stepped  back, 
crying,  with  great  eagerness  and  horror,  ‘ Don’t  touch 
me ! 1 would  as  lieve  be  touched  by  the  Devil ! ’ 

“ He  stood  still,  with  his  bill-hook  in  his  hand,  looking 
at  the  young  man.  For,  the  young  man’s  look  was  the 
counterpart  of  her  last  look,  and  he  had  not  expected  ever 
to  see  that  again. 

‘‘  ‘ I am  no  thief.  Even  if  I were,  I would  not  have  a 


74  the  lazy  tour  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

coin  of  your  wealth,  if  it  would  buy  me  the  Indies.  You 
murderer ! ’ 

“‘What!’ 

“ ‘ I climbed  it,’  said  the  young  man,  pointing  up  into 
the  tree,  ‘ for  the  first  time,  nigh  four  years  ago.  I climbed 
it,  to  look  at  her.  I saw  her.  I spoke  to  her.  I have 
climbed  it,  many  a time,  to  watch  and  listen  for  her.  I 
was  a boy,  hidden  among  its  leaves,  when  from  that  bay- 
window  she  gave  me  this ! ’ 

“ He  showed  a tress  of  flaxen  hair,  tied  with  a mourning 
ribbon. 

“ ‘ Her  life,’  said  the  young  man,  ‘ was  a life  of  mourn- 
ing. She  gave  me  this,  as  a token  of  it,  and  a sign  that 
she  was  dead  to  every  one  but  you.  If  I had  been  older, 
if  I had  seen  her  sooner,  I might  have  saved  her  from  you. 
But,  she  was  fast  in  the  web  when  I first  climbed  the  tree, 
and  what  could  I do  then  to  break  it ! ’ 

“ In  saying  these  words,  he  bnrst  into  a fit  of  sobbing 
and  crying : weakly  at  first,  then  passionately. 

“ ‘ Murderer ! I climbed  the  tree  on  the  night  when  you 
brought  her  back.  I heard  her,  from  the  tree,  speak  of  the 
Death-watch  at  the  door.  I was  three  times  in  the  tree 
while  you  were  shut  up  with  her,  slowly  killing  her.  I 
saw  her,  from  the  tree,  lie  dead  upon  her  bed.  I have 
watched  you,  from  the  tree,  for  proofs  and  traces  of  your 
guilt.  The  manner  of  it,  is  a mystery  to  me  yet,  but  I 
will  pursue  you  until  you  have  rendered  up  your  life  to 
the  hangman.  You  shall  never,  until  then,  be  rid  of  me. 
I loved  her ! I can  know  no  relenting  towards  you. 
Murderer,  I loved  her ! ’ 

“ The  youth  was  bare-headed,  his  hat  having  fluttered 
away  in  his  descent  from  the  tree.  He  moved  towards  the 
gate.  He  had  to  pass — Him — to  get  to  it.  There  was 
breadth  for  two  old-fashioned  carriages  abreast;  and  the 
youth’s  abhorrence,  openly  expressed  in  every  feature  of 
his  face  and  limb  of  his  body,  and  very  hard  to  bear,  had 
verge  enough  to  keep  itself  at  a distance  in.  He  (by  which 
I mean  the  other)  had  not  stirred  hand  or  foot,  since  he 
had  stood  still  to  look  at  the  boy.  He  faced  round,  now, 
to  follow  him  with  his  eyes.  As  the  back  of  the  bare  light 
brown  head  was  turned  to  him,  he  saw  a red  curve  stretch 
from  his  hand  to  it.  He  knew,  before  he  threw  the  bill- 
hook, where  it  had  alighted— I say,  had  alighted,  and  not. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  75 


would  alight;  for,  to  his  clear  perception  the  thing  was 
done  before  he  did  it.  It  cleft  the  head,  and  it  remained 
there,  and  the  boy  lay  on  his  face. 

He  buried  the  body  in  the  night,  at  the  foot  of  the  tree. 
As  soon  as  it  was  light  in  the  morning,  he  worked  at  turn- 
ing up  all  the  ground  near  the  tree,  and  hacking  and  hew- 
ing at  the  neighbouring  bushes  and  undergrowth.  When 
the  labourers  came,  there  was  nothing  suspicious,  and 
nothing  suspected. 

But,  he  had,  in  a moment,  defeated  all  his  precautions, 
and  destroyed  the  triumph  of  the  scheme  he  had  so  long 
concerted,  and  so  successfully  worked  out.  He  had  got 
rid  of  the  Bride,  and  had  acquired  her  fortune  without  en- 
dangering his  life;  but  now,  for  a death  by  which  he  had 
gained  nothing,  he  had  evermore  to  live  with  a rope  around 
his  neck. 

“ Beyond  this,  he  was  chained  to  the  house  of  gloom  and 
horror,  which  he  could  not  endure.  Being  afraid  to  sell  it 
or  to  quit  it,  lest  discovery  should  be  made,  he  was  forced 
to  live  in  it.  He  hired  two  old  people,  man  and  wife,  for 
his  servants;  and  dwelt  in  it,  and  dreaded  it.  His  great 
difficulty,  for  a long  time,  was  the  garden.  Whether  he 
should  keep  it  trim,  whether  he  should  suffer  it  to  fall  into 
its  former  state  of  neglect,  what  would  be  the  least  likely 
way  of  attracting  attention  to  it? 

He  took  the  middle  course  of  gardening,  himself,  in 
his  evening  leisure,  and  of  then  calling  the  old  serving-man 
to  help  him;  but,  of  never  letting  him  work  there  alone. 
And  he  made  himself  an  arbour  over  against  the  tree, 
where  he  could  sit  and  see  that  it  was  safe. 

As  the  seasons  changed,  and  the  tree  changed,  his  mind 
perceived  dangers  that  were  always  changing.  In  the 
leafy  time,  he  perceived  that  the  upper  boughs  were  grow- 
ing into  the  form  of  the  young  man — that  they  made  the 
shape  of  him  exactly,  sitting  in  a forked  branch  swinging 
in  the  wind.  In  the  time  of  the  falling  leaves,  he  per- 
ceived that  they  came  down  from  the  tree,  forming  tell-tale 
letters  on  the  path,  or  that  they  had  a tendency  to  heap 
themselves  into  a churchyard-mound  above  the  grave.  In 
the  winter,  when  the  tree  was  bare,  he  perceived  that  the 
bouglis  swung  at  him  the  ghost  of  the  blow  the  young  man 
had  given,  and  that  they  threatened  him  openly.  In  the 
spring  when  the  sap  was  mounting  in  the  trunk,  he  asked 


76  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

himself,  were  the  dried-up  particles  of  blood  mounting 
with  it : to  make  out  more  obviously  this  year  than  last, 
the  leaf-screened  figure  of  the  young  man,  swinging  in  the 
wind? 

“ However,  he  turned  his  Money  over  and  over, 
and  still  over.  He  was  in  the  dark  trade,  the  gold-dust 
trade,  and  mest  secret  trades  that  yielded  great  returns. 
In  ten  years,  he  had  turned  his  Money  over,  so  many 
times,  that  the  traders  and  shippers  who  had  dealings  with 
him,  absolutely  did  not  lie — for  once — when  they  declared 
that  he  had  increased  his  fortune.  Twelve  Hundred  Per 
Cent. 

He  possessed  his  riches  one  hundred  years  ago,  when 
people  could  be  lost  easily.  He  had  heard  who  the  youth 
was,  from  hearing  of  the  search  that  was  made  after  him ; 
but,  it  died  away,  and  the  youth  was  forgotten. 

The  annual  round  of  changes  in  the  tree  had  been  re- 
peated ten  times  since  the  night  of  the  burial  at  its  foot, 
when  there  was  a great  thunder-storm  over  this  place.  It 
broke  at  midnight,  and  raged  until  morning.  The  first  in- 
telligence he  heard  from  his  old  serving-man  that  morning, 
was,  that  the  tree  had  been  struck  by  Lightning. 

It  had  been  driven  down  the  stem,  in  a very  surprising 
manner,  and  the  stem  lay  in  two  blighted  shafts : one  rest- 
ing against  the  house,  and  one  against  a portion  of  the  old 
red  garden- wall  in  which  its  fall  had  made  a gap.  The 
fissure  went  down  the  tree  to  a little  above  the  earth,  and 
there  stopped.  There  was  great  curiosity  to  see  the  tree, 
and,  with  most  of  his  former  fears  revived,  he  sat  in  his 
arbour — -grown  quite  an  old  man — watching  the  people  who 
came  to  see  it. 

They  quickly  began  to  come,  in  such  dangerous  num- 
bers, that  he  closed  his  garden-gate  and  refused  to  admit 
any  more.  But,  there  were  certain  men  of  science  who 
travelled  from  a distance  to  examine  the  tree,  and,  in  an 
evil  hour,  he  let  them  in — Blight  and  Murrain  on  them, 
let  them  in ! 

^^They  wanted  to  dig  up  the  ruin  by  the  roots,  and 
closely  examine  it,  and  the  earth  about  it.  Never,  while 
he  lived ! They  offered  money  for  it.  They ! Men  of  sci- 
ence, whom  he  could  have  bought  by  the  gross,  with  a 
scratch  of  his  pen ! He  showed  them  the  garden-gate 
again,  and  locked  and  barred  it. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  77 

“But  they  were  bent  on  doing  what  they  wanted  to  do, 
and  they  bribed  the  old  serving-man — a thankless  wretch 
who  regularly  complained  when  he  received  his  wages,  of 
being  underpaid — and  they  stole  into  the  garden  by  night 
with  their  lanterns,  picks,  and  shovels,  and  fell  to  at  the 
tree.  He  was  lying  in  a turret-room  on  the  other  side  of 
the  house  (the  Bride’s  Chamber  had  been  unoccupied  ever 
since),  but  he  soon  dreamed  of  picks  and  shovels,  and  got 
up.^ 

“ He  came  to  an  upper  window  on  that  side,  whence  he 
could  see  their  lanterns,  and  them,  and  the  loose  earth  in 
a heap  which  he  had  himself  disturbed  and  put  back,  when 
it  was  last  turned  to  the  air.  It  was  found!  They  had 
that  minute  lighted  on  it.  They  were  all  bending  over  if. 
One  of  them  said,  ‘The  skull  is  fractured;’  and  another, 

‘ See  here  the  bones;’  and  another,  ‘ See  here  the  clothes;’ 
and  then  the  first  struck  in  again,  and  said,  ‘ A rusty  bill- 
hook ! ’ 

“ He  became  sensible,  next  day,  that  he  was  already  put 
under  a strict  watch,  and  that  he  could  go  nowhere  with- 
out being  followed.  Before  a week  was  out,  he  was  taken 
and  laid  in  hold.  The  circumstances  were  gradually  pieced 
together  against  him,  with  a desperate  malignity,  and  an 
appalling  ingenuity.  But,  see  the  justice  of  men,  and  how 
it  was  extended  to  him ! He  was  further  accused  of  hav- 
ing poisoned  that  girl  in  the  Bride’s  Chamber.  He,  who 
had  carefully  and  expressly  avoided  imperilling  a hair  of 
his  head  for  her,  and  who  had  seen  her  die  of  her  own  in- 
capacity ! 

There  was  doubt  for  which  of  the  two  murders  he 
should  be  first  tried;  but,  the  real  one  was  chosen,  and  he 
was  found  Guilty,  and  cast  for  Death.  Bloodthirsty 
wretches!  They  would  have  made  him  Guilty  of  any- 
thing, so  set  they  were  upon  having  his  life. 

“His  money  could  do  nothing  to  save  him,  and  he  was 
hanged.  I am  He,  and  I was  hanged  at  Lancaster  Castle 
with  my  face  to  the  wall,  a hundred  years  ago ! ” 

At  this  terrific  announcement,  Mr.  Goodchild  tried  to 
rise  and  cry  out.  But,  the  two  fiery  lines  extending  from 
the  old  man’s  eyes  to  his  own,  kept  him  down,  and  ho 
could  not  utter  a sound.  His  sense  of  hearing,  however, 
was  acute,  and  he  could  hear  the  clock  strike  Two.  No 


78  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 


sooner  had  he  heard  the  clock  strike  Two,  than  he  saw  be- 
fore him  Two  old  men ! 

Two. 

The  eyes  of  each,  connected  with  his  eyes  by  two  films 
of  fire : each,  exactly  like  the  other : each,  addressing  him 
at  precisely  one  and  the  same  instant : each,  gnashing  the 
same  teeth  in  the  same  head,  with  the  same  twitched  nos- 
tril above  them,  and  the  same  suffused  expression  around 
it.  Two  old  men.  Differing  in  nothing,  equally  distinct 
to  the  sight,  the  copy  no  fainter  than  the  original,  the  sec- 
ond as  real  as  the  first. 

At  what  time,”  said  the  Two  old  men,  ^‘did  you  ar- 
rive at  the  door  below?  ” 

At  Six.” 

And  there  were  Six  old  men  upon  the  stairs ! ” 

Mr.  Goodchild  having  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his 
brow,  or  tried  to  do  it,  the  Two  old  men  proceeded  in  one 
voice,  and  in  the  singular  number : 

I had  been  anatomised,  bu/  had  not  yet  had  my  skele- 
ton put  together  and  rehung  on  an  iron  hook,  when  it  be- 
gan to  be  whispered  that  the  Bride’s  Chamber  was  haunted. 
It  was  haunted,  and  I was  there. 

We  were  there.  She  and  I were  there.  I,  in  the  chair 
upon  the  hearth;  she,  a white  wreck  again,  trailing  itself 
towards  me  on  the  floor.  But,  I was  the  speaker  no  more, 
and  the  one  word  that  she  said  to  me  from  midnight  until 
dawn  was,  ^ Live ! ’ 

^^The  youth  was  there,  likewise.  In  the  tree  outside  the 
window.  Coming  and  going  in  the  moonlight,  as  the  tree 
bent  and  gave.  He  has,  ever  since,  been  there,  peeping 
in  at  me  in  my  torment;  revealing  to  me  by  snatches,  in 
the  pale  lights  and  slaty  shadows  where  he  comes  and  goes, 
bare-headed — a bill-hook,  standing  edgewise  in  his  hair. 

^^In  the  Bride’s  Chamber,  every  night  from  midnight 
until  dawn — one  month  in  the  year  excepted,  as  I am  going 
to  tell  you — he  hides  in  the  tree,  and  she  comes  towards 
me  on  the  floor;  always  approaching;  never  coming  nearer; 
always  visible  as  if  by  moonlight,  whether  the  moon  shines 
or  no;  always  saying,  from  midnight  until  dawn,  her  one 
word,  ^ Live ! ’ 

But,  in  the  month  wherein  I was  forced  out  of  this 
life™- this  present  month  of  thirty  days — the  Bride’s  Cham- 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  79 

ber  is  empty  and  quiet.  Not  so  my  old  dungeon.  Not  so 
the  rooms  wliere^I  was  restless  and  afraid,  ten  years.  Both 
are  fitfully  haunted  then.  At  One  in  the  morning,  I am 
what  you  saw  me  when  the  clock  struck  that  hour— One 
old  man.  At  Two  in  the  morning,  I am  Two  old  men. 
At  Three,  1 am  Three.  By  Twelve  at  noon,  I am  Twelve 
old  men.  One  for  every  hundred  per  cent,  of  old  gain. 
Every  one  of  the  Twelve,  with  Twelve  times  my  old  power 
of  suffering  and  agony.  From  that  hour  until  Twelve  at 
night,  I,  Twelve  old  men  in  anguish  and  fearful  forebod- 
ing, wait  for  the  coming  of  the  executioner.  At  Twelve  at 
night,  I,  Twelve  old  men  turned  off,  swing  invisible  outside 
Lancaster  Castle,  with  Twelve  faces  to  the  wall! 

When  the  Bride’s  Chamber  was  first  haunted,  it  was 
known  to  me  that  this  punishment  would  never  cease,  until 
I could  make  its  nature,  and  my  story,  known  to  two  liv- 
ing men  together.  I waited  for  the  coming  of  two  living 
men  together  into  the  Bride’s  Chamber,  years  upon  years. 
It  was  infused  into  my  knowledge  (of  the  means  I am  ig- 
norant) that  if  two  living  men,  with  their  eyes  open,  could 
be  in  the  Bride’s  Chamber  at  One  in  the  morning,  they 
would  see  me  sitting  in  my  chair. 

At  length,  the  whispers  that  the  room  was  spii;itually 
troubled,  brought  two  men  to  try  the  adventure.  I was 
scarcely  struck  upon  the  hearth  at  midnight  (I  came  there 
as  if  the  Lightning  blasted  me  into  being),  when  I heard 
them  ascending  the  stairs.  Next,  I saw  them  enter.  One 
of  them  was  a bold,  gay,  active  man,  in  the  prime  of  life, 
some  five  and  forty  years  of  age;  the  other,  a dozen  years 
younger.  They  brought  provisions  with  them  in  a basket, 
and  bottles.  A young  woman  accompanied  them,  with 
wood  and  coals  for  the  lighting  of  the  fire.  When  she  had 
lighted  it,  the  bold,  gay,  active  man  accompanied  her  along 
the  gallery  outside  the  room,  to  see  her  safely  down  the 
staircase,  and  came  back  laughing. 

“ He  locked  the  door,  examined  the  chamber,  put  out  the 
contents  of  the  basket  on  the  table  before  the  fire — little 
recking  of  me,  in  my  appointed  station  on  the  hearth,  close 
to  him— and  filled  the  glasses,  and  ate  and  drank.  His 
companion  did  the  same,  and  was  as  cheerful  and  confident 
as  he : though  he  was  the  leader.  When  they  had  supped, 
they  laid  pistols  on  the  table,  turned  to  the  fire,  and  began 
to  smoke  their  pipes  of  foreign  make. 


80  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

They  had  travelled  together,  and  had  been  much  to- 
gether, and  had  an  abundance  of  subjects  .in  common.  In 
the  midst  of  their  talking  and  laughing,  the  younger  man 
made  a reference  to  the  leader’s  being  always  ready  for  any 
adventure;  that  one,  or  any  other.  He  replied  in  these 
words : 

^ Not  quite  so,  Dick;  if  I am  afraid  of  nothing  else,  I 
am  afraid  of  myself.’ 

^^His  companion  seeming  to  grow  a little  dull,  asked 
him,  in  what  sense?  How? 

‘ Why,  thus,’  he  returned.  ‘ Here  is  a Ghost  to  be  dis- 
proved. Well!  I cannot  answer  for  what  my  fancy  might 
do  if  I were  alone  here,  or  what  tricks  my  senses  might 
play  with  me  if  they  had  me  to  themselves.  But,  in  com- 
pany with  another  man,  and  especially  with  you,  Dick,  I 
would  consent  to  outface  all  the  Ghosts  that  were  ever  told 
of  in  the  universe.’ 

‘ I had  not  the  vanity  to  suppose  that  I was  of  so  much 
importance  to-night,’  said  the  other. 

^ Of  so  much,’  rejoined  the  leader,  more  seriously  than 
he  had  spoken  yet,  ‘ that  I would,  for  the  reason  I have 
given,  on  no  account  have  undertaken  to  pass  the  night 
here  alone.’ 

It  was  within  a few  minutes  of  One.  The  head  of  the 
younger  man  had  drooped  when  he  made  his  last  remark, 
and  it  drooped  lower  now. 

^^^Keep  awake,  Dick!’  said  the  leader,  gaily.  ‘The 
small  hours  are  the  worst.’ 

“ He  tried,  but  his  head  drooped  again. 

“ ‘ Dick ! ’ urged  the  leader.  ‘ Keep  awake ! ’ 

“‘I  can’t,’  he  indistinctly  muttered.  ‘I  don’t  know 
what  strange  influence  is  stealing  over  me.  I can’t.’ 

“ His  companion  looked  at  him  with  a sudden  horror, 
and  I,  in  my  different  way,  felt  a new  horror  also;  for,  it 
was  on  the  stroke  of  One,  and  I felt  that  the  second 
watcher  was  yielding  to  me,  and  that  the  curse  was  upon 
me  that  I must  send  him  to  sleep. 

“ ‘ Get  up  and  walk,  Dick ! ’ cried  the  leader.  ‘ Try ! ’ 
“It  was  in  vain  to  go  behind  the  slumberer’s  chair  and 
shake  him.  One  o’clock  sounded,  and  I was  present  to  the 
elder  man,  and  he  stood  transfixed  before  me. 

“ To  him  alone,  I was  obliged  to  relate  my  story,  with- 
out hope  of  benefit.  To  him  alone,  I was  an  awful  phan- 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  81 


tom  making  a quite  useless  confession.  I foresee  it  will 
ever  be  the  same.  The  two  living  men  together  will  never 
come  to  release  me.  When  I appear,  the  senses  of  one  of 
the  two  will  be  locked  in  sleep;  he  will  neither  see  nor  hear 
me;  my  communication  will  ever  be  made  to  a solitary  lis- 
tener, and  will  ever  be  unserviceable.  Woe ! Woe ! Woe ! ” 
As  the  Two  old  men,  with  these  words,  wrung  their 
hands,  it  shot  into  Mr.  Goodchild’s  mind  that  he  was  in 
the  terrible  situation  of  being  virtually  alone  with  the  spec- 
tre, and  that  Mr.  Idle’s  immovability  was  explained  by  his 
having  been  charmed  asleep  at  One  o’clock.  In  the  terror 
of  this  sudden  discovery  which  produced  an  indescribable 
dread,  he  struggled  so  hard  to  get  free  from  the  four  fiery 
threads,  that  he  snapped  them,  after  he  had  pulled  them 
out  to  a great  width.  Being  then  out  of  bonds,  he  caught 
up  Mr.  Idle  from  the  sofa  and  rushed  down-stairs  with  him. 

^^What  are  you  about,  Francis?”  demanded  Mr.  Idle. 
^‘My  bedroom  is  not  down  here.  What  the  deuce  are  you 
carrying  me  at  all  for?  I can  walk  with  a stick  now.  I 
don’t  want  to  be  carried.  Put  me  down.” 

Mr.  Goodchild  put  him  down  in  the  old  hall,  and  looked 
about  him  wildly. 

What  are  you  doing?  Idiotically  plunging  at  your  own 
sex,  and  rescuing  them  or  perishing  in  the  attempt?  ” asked 
Mr.  Idle,  in  a highly  petulant  state. 

The  One  old  man ! ” cried  Mr.  Goodchild,  distractedly, 
— ‘^and  the  Two  old  men ! ” 

Mr.  Idle  deigned  no  other  reply  than  ^‘The  One  old 
v/oman,  I think  you  mean,”  as  he  began  hobbling  his  way 
back  up  the  staircase,  with  the  assistance  of  its  broad  bal- 
ustrade. 

^ I assure  you,  Tom,”  began  Mr.  Goodchild,  attending  at 

his  side,  ‘^that  since  you  fell  asleep ” 

^‘Come,  I like  that!”  said  Thomas  Idle,  “I  haven’t 
closed  an  eye ! ” 

With  the  peculiar  sensitiveness  on  the  subject  of  the  dis- 
graceful action  of  going  to  sleep  out  of  bed,  which  is  the 
lot  of  all  mankind,  Mr.  Idle  persisted  in  this  declaration. 
The  same  peculiar  sensitiveness  impelled  Mr.  Goodchild, 
on  being  taxed  with  the  same  crime,  to  repudiate  it  with 
honourable  resentment.  The  settlement  of  the  question  of 
The  One  old  man  and  The  Two  old  men  was  thus  presently 


82  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

complicated,  and  soon  made  quite  impracticable.  Mr.  Idle 
said  it  was  all  Bride-cake,  and  fragments,  newly  arranged, 
of  things  seen  and  thought  about  in  the  day.  Mr.  Good- 
child  said  how  could  that  be,  when  he  hadn’t  been  asleep, 
and  what  right  could  Mr.  Idle  have  to  say  so,  who  had  been 
asleep?  Mr.  Idle  said  he  had  never  been  asleep,  and  never 
did  go  to  sleep,  and  that  Mr.  Goodchild,  as  a general  rule, 
was  always  asleep.  They  consequently  parted  for  the  rest 
of  the  night,  at  their  bedroom  doors,  a little  ruffled.  Mr. 
Goodchild’s  last  words  were,  that  he  had  had,  in  that  real 
and  tangible  old  sitting-room  of  that  real  and  tangible  old 
Inn  (he  supposed  Mr.  Idle  denied  its  existence?),  every 
sensation  and  experience,  the  present  record  of  which  is 
now  within  a line  or  two  of  completion ; and  that  he  would 
write  it  out  and  print  it  every  word.  Mr.  Idle  returned 
that  he  might  if  he  liked — and  he  did  like,  and  has  now 
done  it 


CHAPTER  V. 

Two  of  the  many  passengers  by  a certain  late  Sunday 
evening  train,  Mr.  Thomas  Idle  and  Mr.  Francis  Good- 
child,  yielded  up  their  tickets  at  a little  rotten  platform 
(converted  into  artificial  touch- wood  by  smoke  and  ashes), 
deep  in  the  manufacturing  bosom  of  Yorkshire.  A mys- 
terious bosom  it  appeared,  upon  a damp,  dark,  Sunday 
night,  dashed  through  in  the  train  to  the  music  of  the 
whirling  wheels,  the  panting  of  the  engine,  and  the  part- 
singing of  hundreds  of  third-class  excursionists,  whose  vocal 
efforts  bobbed  arayound  ” from  sacred  to  profane,  from 
hymns,  to  our  transatlantic  sisters  the  Yankee  Gal  and 
Mairy  Anne,  in  a remarkable  way.  There  seemed  to  have 
been  some  large  vocal  gathering  near  to  every  lonely  sta- 
tion on  the  line.  No  town  was  visible,  no  village  was 
visible,  no  light  was  visible;  but,  a multitude  got  out  sing- 
ing, and  a multitude  got  in  singing,  and  the  second  multi- 
tude took  up  the  hymns,  and  adopted *our  transatlantic  sis- 
ters, and  sang  of  their  own  egregious  wickedness,  and  of 
their  bobbing  arayound,  and  of  how  the  ship  it  was  ready 
and  the  wind  it  was  fair,  and  they  were  bayound  for  the 
sea,  Mairy  Anne,  until  they  in  their  turn  became  a getting- 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  83 


out  multitude,  and  were  replaced  by  another  getting-in 
multitude,  who  did  the  same.  And  at  every  station,  the 
getting-in  multitude,  with  an  artistic  reference  to  the  com- 
pleteness of  their  chorus,  incessantly  cried,  as  with  one 
voice  while  scuffling  into  the  carriages,  We  mun  aa^  gang 
toogither'! 

The  singing  and  the  multitudes  had  trailed  off  as  the  lonely 
places  were  left  and  the  great  towns  were  neared,  and  the 
way  had  lain  as  silently  as  a train’s  way  ever  can,  over  the 
vague  black  streets  of  the  great  gulfs  of  towns,  and  among 
their  branchless  woods  of  vague  black  chimneys.  These 
towns  looked,  in  the  cinderous  wet,  as  though  they  had  one 
and  all  been  on  fire  and  were  just  put  out — a dreary  and 
quenched  panorama,  many  miles  long. 

Thus,  Thomas  and  Francis  got  to  Leeds;  of  which  en- 
terprising and  important  commercial  centre  it  may  be  ob- 
served with  delicacy,  that  you  must  either  like  it  very 
much  or  not  at  all.  Next  day,  the  first  of  the  Race-Week, 
they  took  train  to  Doncaster. 

And  instantly  the  character,  both  of  travellers  and  of 
luggage,  entirely  changed,  and  no  other  business  than  race- 
business  any  longer  existed  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  The 
talk  was  all  of  horses  and  “John  Scott.”  Guards  whis- 
pered behind  their  hands  to  station-masters,  of  horses  and 
John  Scott.  Men  in  cut-away  coats  and  speckled  cravats 
fastened  with  peculiar  pins,  and  with  the  large  bones  of 
their  legs  developed  under  tight  trousers,  so  that  they 
should  look  as  much  as  possible  like  horses’  legs,  paced  up 
and  down  by  twos  at  junction-stations,  speaking  low  and 
moodily  of  horses  and  John  Scott.  The  young  clergyman 
in  the  black  strait-waistcoat,  who  occupied  the  middle  seat 
of  the  carriage,  expounded  in  his  peculiar  pulpit-accent  to 
the  young  and  lovely  Reverend  Mrs.  Crinoline,  who  occu- 
pied the  opposite  middle-seat,  a few  passages  of  rumour 
relative  to  “Oartheth,  my  love,  and  Mithter  John  Eth- 
COTT.”  A bandy  vagabond,  with  a head  like  a Dutch 
cheese,  in  a fustian  stable-suit,  attending  on  a horse-box 
and  going  about  the  platforms  with  a halter  hanging  round 
his  neck  like  a Calais  burgher  of  the  ancient  period  much 
degenerated,  was  courted  by  the  best  society,  by  reason  of 
what  he  had  to  hint,  when  not  engaged  in  eating  straw, 
concerning  “t’harses  and  Joon  Scott.”  The  engine-driver 
himself,  as  he  applied  one  eye  to  his  large  stationary 


84  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

double-eye-glass  on  the  engine,  seemed  to  keep  the  other 
open,  sideways,  upon  horses  and  John  Scott. 

Freaks  and  barriers  at  Doncaster  station  to  keep  the 
crowd  off;  temporary  wooden  avenues  of  ingress  and  egress, 
to  help  the  crowd  on.  Forty  extra  porters  sent  down  for 
this  present  blessed  Race- Week,  and  all  of  them  making 
up  their  betting-books  in  the  lamp-room  or  somewhere  else, 
and  none  of  them  to  come  and  touch  the  luggage.  Travel- 
lers disgorged  into  an  open  space,  a howling  wilderness  of 
idle  men.  All  work  but  race- work  at  a stand-still;  all 
men  at  a stand-still,  ^‘Ey  my  word!  Deant  ask  noon  o’ 
us  to  help  wi’ t’  luggage.  Bock  your  opinion  loike  a mon. 
Coom!  Dang  it,  coom,  Uharses  and  Joon  Scott!  ” In  the 
midst  of  the  idle  men,  all  the  fly  horses  and  omnibus  horses 
of  Doncaster  and  parts  adjacent,  rampant,  rearing,  back- 
ing, plunging,  shying — apparently  the  result  of  their  hear- 
ing of  nothing  but  their  own  order  and  John  Scott. 

Grand  Dramatic  Company  from  London  for  the  Race- 
Week.  Poses  Plastiques  in  the  Grand  Assembly  Room  up 
the  Stable-Yard  at  seven  and  nine  each  evening,  for  the 
Race- Week.  Grand  Alliance  Circus  in  the  field  beyond  the 
bridge,  for  the  Race- Week,  Grand  Exhibition  of  Aztec 
Lilliputians,  important  to  all  who  want  to  be  horrified 
cheap,  for  the  Race-Week,  Lodgings,  grand  and  not  grand, 
but  all  at  grand  prices,  ranging  from  ten  pounds  to  twenty, 
for  the  Grand  Race- Week! 

Rendered  giddy  enough  by  these  things.  Messieurs  Idle 
and  Goodchild  repaired  to  the  quarters  they  had  secured 
beforehand,  and  Mr.  Goodchild  looked  down  from  the  win- 
dow into  the  surging  street. 

^^By  heaven,  Tom!  cried  he,  after  contemplating  it,  ‘^1 
am  in  the  Lunatic  Asylum  again,  and  these  are  all  mad 
people  under  the  charge  of  a body  of  designing  keepers ! ’’ 

All  through  the  Race-Week,  Mr.  Goodchild  never  di- 
vested himself  of  this  idea.  Every  day  he  looked  out  of 
window,  with  something  of  the  dread  of  Lemuel  Gulliver 
looking  down  at  men  after  he  returned  home  from  the 
horse-country;  and  every  day  he  saw  the  Lunatics,  horse- 
mad,  betting-mad,  drunken-mad,  vice-mad,  and  the  de- 
signing Keepers  always  after  them.  The  idea  pervaded, 
like  the  second  colour  in  shot-silk,  the  wliole  of  Mr.  Good- 
child’s  impressions.  They  were  much  as  follows: 

Monday,  mid-day.  Races  not  to  begin  until  to-morrow, 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  85 

but  all  the  mob-Lunatics  out,  crowding  the  pavements  of 
the  one  main  street  of  pretty  and  pleasant  Doncaster, 
crowding  the  road,  particularly  crowding  the  outside  of  the 
Betting  Rooms,  whooping  and  shouting  loudly  after  all 
passing  vehicles.  Frightened  lunatic  horses  occasionally 
running  away,  with  infinite  clatter.  All  degrees  of  men, 
from  peers  to  paupers,  betting  incessantly.  Keepers  very 
watchful,  and  taking  all  good  chances.  An  awful  famil}'^ 
likeness  among  the  Keepers,  to  Mr.  Palmer  and  Mr.  Thur- 
tell.  With  some  knowledge  of  expression  and  some  ac- 
quaintance with  heads  (thus  writes  Mr.  Goodchild),  I never 
have  seen  anywhere,  so  many  repetitions  of  one  class  of 
countenance  and  one  character  of  head  (both  evil)  as  in 
this  street  at  this  time.  Cunning,  covetousness,  secrecy, 
cold  calculation,  hard  callousness,  and  dire  insensibility,  are 
the  uniform  Keeper  characteristics.  Mr.  Palmer  passes 
me  five  times  in  five  minutes,  and,  as  I go  down  the 
street,  the  back  of  Mr.  ThurtelPs  skull  is  always  going  on 
before  me. 

Monday  evening.  Town  lighted  up;  more  Lunatics  out 
than  ever  ; a complete  choke  and  stoppage  of  the  thorough- 
fare outside  the  Betting  Rooms.  Keepers,  having  dined, 
pervade  the  Betting  Rooms,  and  sharply  snap  at  the  mon- 
eyed Lunatics.  Some  Keepers  fiushed  with  drink,  and  some 
not,  but  all  close  and  calculating.  A vague  echoing  roar 
of  Uharses  and  t^races  always  rising  in  the  air,  until 
midnight,  at  about  which  period  it  dies  away  in  occasional 
drunken  songs  and  straggling  yells.  But,  all  night,  some 
unmannerly  drinking-house  in  the  neighbourhood  opens 
its  mouth  at  intervals  and  spits  out  a man  too  drunk  to  be 
retained:  who  thereupon  makes  what  uproarious  protest 
may  be  left  in  him,  and  either  falls  asleep  where  he  tum- 
bles, or  is  carried  off  in  custody. 

Tuesday  morning,  at  daybreak.  A sudden  rising,  as  it 
were  out  of  the  earth,  of  all  the  obscene  creatures,  who  sell 
correct  cards  of  the  races.”  They  may  have  been  coiled 
in  corners,  or  sleeping  on  door-steps,  and,  having  all  passed 
the  night  under  the  same  set  of  circumstances,  may  all 
want  to  circulate  their  blood  at  the  same  time;  but,  how- 
ever that  may  be,  they  spring  into  existence  all  at  once  and 
together,  as  though  a new  Cadmus  had  sown  a race-horse’s 
teeth.  There  is  nobody  up,  to  buy  the  cards;  but,  the 
cards  are  madly  cried.  There  is  no  patronage  to  quarrel 


86  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

for;  but,  they  madly  quarrel  and  fight.  ConspicuouB 
among  these  hyaenas,  as  breakfast-time  discloses,  is  a fear- 
ful creature  in  the  general  semblance  of  a man : shaken  off 
his  next-to-no  legs  by  drink  and  devilry,  bare-headed  and 
bare-footed,  with  a great  shock  of  hair  like  a horrible 
broom,  and  nothing  on  him  but  a ragged  pair  of  trousers 
and  a pink  glazed-calico  coat — made  on  him — so  very  tight 
that  it  is  as  evident  that  he  could  never  take  it  off,  as  that 
he  never  does.  This  hideous  apparition,  inconceivably 
drunk,  has  a terrible  power  of  making  a gong-like  imitation 
of  the  braying  of  an  ass:  which  feat  requires  that  he 
should  lay  his  right  jaw  in  his  begrimed  right  paw,  double 
himself  up,  and  shake  his  bray  out  of  himself,  with  much 
staggering  on  his  next-to-no  legs,  and  much  twirling  of  his 
horrible  broom,  as  if  it  were  a mop.  From  the  present 
minute,  when  he  comes  in  sight  holding  up  his  cards  to  the 
windows,  and  hoarsely  proposing  purchase  to  My  Lord, 
Your  Excellency,  Colonel,  the  Noble  Captain,  and  Your 
Honourable  Worship — from  the  present  minute  until  the 
Grand  Race-Week  is  finished,  at  all  hours  of  the  morning, 
evening,  day,  and  night,  shall  the  town  reverberate,  at 
capricious  intervals,  to  the  brays  of  this  frightful  animal 
the  Gong-Donkey. 

No  very  great  racing  to-day,  so  no  very  great  amount  of 
vehicles : though  there  is  a good  sprinkling,  too : from 
farmers’  carts  and  gigs,  to  carriages  with  post-horses  and 
to  fours-in-hand,  mostly  coming  by  the  road  from  York, 
and  passing  on  straight  through  the  main  street  to  the 
Course.  A walk  in  the  wrong  direction  may  be  a better 
thing  for  Mr.  Goodchild  to-day  than  the  Course,  so  he 
walks  in  the  wrong  direction.  Everybody  gone  to  the  races. 
Only  children  in  the  street.  Grand  Alliance  Circus  de- 
serted; notone  Star-Rider  left;  omnibus  which  forms  the 
Pay-Place,  having  on  separate  panels  Pay  here  for  the 
Boxes,  Pay  here  for  the  Pit,  Pay  here  for  the  Gallery, 
hove  down  in  a corner  and  locked  up;  nobody  near  the  tent 
but  the  man  on  his  knees  on  the  grass,  who  is  making  the 
paper  balloons  for  the  Star  young  gentlemen  to  jump 
through  to-night.  A pleasant  road,  pleasantly  wooded. 
No  labourers  working  in  the  fields;  all  gone  ^‘t’races.” 
The  few  late  wenders  of  their  way  ^^t’races,”  who  are  yet 
left  driving  on  the  road,  stare  in  amazement  at  the  recluse 
who  is  not  going  ^H’races.”  Roadside  innkeeper  has  gone 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  87 

“ t’ races.  ” Turnpike-man  has  gone  “ t’races.  ” His  thrifty 
wife,  washing  clothes  at  the  toll-house  door^  is  going 
“ t’races”  to-morrow.  Perhaps  there  may  be  no  one  left  to 
take  the  toll  to-morrow;  who  knows?  Though  assuredly 
that  would  be  neither  turnpike-like,  nor  Yorkshire-like. 
The  very  wind  and  dnst  seem  to  be  hurrying  “t’races,”  as 
they  briskly  pass  the  only  wayfarer  on  the  road.  In  the 
distance,  the  Railway  Engine,  waiting  at  the  town-end, 
shrieks  despairingly.  Nothing  but  the  difficulty  of  getting 
off  the  Line,  restrains  that  Engine  from  going  “ t’races,” 
too,  it  is  very  clear.  ’ 

At  night,  more  Lunatics  ont  than  last  night— and  more 
Keepers.  The  latter  very  active  at  the  Betting  Rooms,  the 
street  in  front  of  which  is  now  impassable.  Mr.  Palmer  as 
before.  Mr.  Thurtell  as  before.  Roar  and  uproar  as  be- 
fore. Gradual  subsidence  as  before.  Unmannerly  drink- 
ing-house  expectorates  as  before.  Drunken  negro-melo- 
dists, Gong-donkey,  and  correct  cards,  in  the  night. 

On  Wednesday  morning,  the  morning  of  the  great  St. 
Leger,  it  becomes  apparent  that  there  has  been  a great  in- 
flux since  yesterday,  both  of  Lunatics  and  Keepers.  The 
families  of  the  tradesmen  over  the  way  are  no  longer  within 
human  ken;  their  places  know  them  no  more;  ten,  fifteen, 
and  twenty  guinea-lodgers  fill  them.  At  the  pastry-cook’s 
second-floor  window,  a Keeper  is  brushing  Mr.  Thurtell’s 
hair— thinking  it  his  own.  In  the  wax-chandler’s  attic, 
another  Keeper  is  putting  on  Mr.  Palmer’s  braces.  In  the 
gunsmith’s  nursery,  a Lunatic  is  shaving  himself.  In  the 
serious  stationer’s  best  sitting-room,  three  Lunatics  are 
taking  a combination-breakfast,  praising  the  (cook’s)  devil, 
and  drinking  neat  brandy  in  an  atmosphere  of  last  mid- 
night’s cigars.  No  family  sanctuary  is  free  from  our  An- 
gelic messengers— we  pnt  up  at  the  Angel— who  in  the 
guise  of  extra  waiters  for  the  grand  Race- Week,  rattle  in 
and  out  of  the  most  secret  chambers  of  everybody’s  house, 
with  dishes  and  tin  covers,  decanters,  soda-water  bottlesj 
and  glasses.  An  hour  later.  Down  the  street  and  up  the 
street,  as  far  as  eyes  can  see  and  a good  deal  farther,  there 
IS  a dense  crowd;  outside  the  Betting  Rooms  it  is  like  a 
great  struggle  at  a theatre  door — in  the  days  of  theatres; 
or  at  the  vestibule  of  the  Spurgeon  temple— in  the  days  of 
Spurgeon.  An  hour  later.  Fusing  into  this  crowd,  and 
somehow  getting  through  it,  are  all  kinds  of  conveyances. 


88  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

and  all  kinds  of  foot-passengers;  carts,  with  brick-makers 
and  brick-makeresses  jolting  up  and  down  on  planks; 
drags,  with  the  needful  grooms  behind,  sitting  cross-armed 
in  the  needful  manner,  and  slanting  themselves  backward 
from  the  soles  of  their  boots  at  the  needful  angle;  post- 
boys, in  the  shining  hats  and  smart  jackets  of  the  olden 
time,  when  stokers  were  not;  beautiful  Yorkshire  horses, 
gallantly  driven  by  their  own  breeders  and  masters. 
Under  every  pole,  and  every  shaft,  and  every  horse,  and 
every  wheel  as  it  would  seem,  the  Gong-donkey — metalli- 
cally braying,  when  not  struggling  for  life,  or  whipped  out 
of  the  way. 

By  one  o’clock,  all  this  stir  has  gone  out  of  the  streets, 
and  there  is  no  one  left  in  them  but  Francis  Goodchild. 
Francis  Goodchild  will  not  be  left  in  them  long;  for,  he 
too  is  on  his  way  ^H’races.” 

A most  beautiful  sight,  Francis  Goodchild  finds  t’ races  ” 
to  be,  when  he  has  left  fair  Doncaster  behind  him,  and 
comes  out  on  the  free  course,  with  its  agreeable  prospect, 
its  quaint  Red  House  oddly  changing  and  turning  as 
Francis  turns,  its  green  grass,  and  fresh  heath.  A free 
course  and  an  easy  one,  where  Francis  can  roll  smoothly 
where  he  will,  and  can  choose  between  the  start,  or  the 
coming-in,  or  the  turn  behind  the  brow  of  the  hill,  or  any 
out-of-the-way  point  where  he  lists  to  see  the  throbbing 
horses  straining  every  nerve,  and  making  the  sympathetic 
earth  throb  as  they  come  by.  Francis  much  delights  to  be, 
not  in  the  Grand  Stand,  but  where  he  can  see  it,  rising 
against  the  sky  with  its  vast  tiers  of  little  white  dots  of 
faces,  and  its  last  high  rows  and  corners  of  people,  looking 
like  pins  stuck  into  an  enormous  pin- cushion — not  quite  so 
symmetrically  as  his  orderly  eye  could  wish,  when  people 
change  or  go  away.  When  the  race  is  nearly  run  out,  it  is 
as  good  as  the  race  to  him  to  see  the  flutter  among  the  pins, 
and  the  change  in  them  from  dark  to  light,  as  hats  are 
taken  off  and  waved.  Not  less  full  of  interest,  the  loud 
anticipation  of  the  winner’s  name,  the  swelling,  and  the 
final,  roar;  then,  the  quick  dropping  of  all  the  pins  out  of 
their  places,  the  revelation  of  the  shape  of  the  bare  pin- 
cushion, and  the  closing-in  of  the  whole  host  of  Lunatics 
and  Keepers,  in  the  rear  of  the  three  horses  with  bright- 
coloured  riders,  who  have  not  yet  quite  subdued  their  gal- 
lop though  the  contest  is  over. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  89 

Mr.  Goodchild  would  appear  to  have  been  by  no  means 
free  from  lunacy  himself  at 'Horaces, though  not  of  the 
prevalent  kind.  He  is  suspected  by  Mr.  Idle  to  have  fallen 
into  a dreadful  state  concerning  a pair  of  little  lilac  gloves 
and  a little  bonnet  that  he  saw  there.  Mr.  Idle  asserts, 
that  he  did  afterwards  repeat  at  the  Angel,  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  being  lunatically  seized,  some  rhapsody  to  the 
following  effect : ''  0 little  lilac  gloves ! And  0 winning 
little  bonnet,  making  in  conjunction  with  her  golden  hair 
quite  a Glory  in  the  sunlight  round  the  pretty  head,  why 
anything  in  the  world  but  you  and  me ! Why  may  not  this 
day’s  running — of  horses,  to  all  the  rest:  of  precious  sands 
of  life  to  me — be  prolonged  through  an  everlasting  au- 
tumn-sunshine, without  a sunset!  Slave  of  the  Lamp,  or 
Ring,  strike  me  yonder  gallant  equestrian  Clerk  of  the 
Course,  in  the  scarlet  coat,  motionless  on  the  green  grass 
for  ages ! Friendly  Devil  on  Two  Sticks,  for  ten  times  ten 
thousand  years,  keep  Blink-Bonny  jibbing  at  the  post,  and 
let  us  have  no  start!  Arab  drums,  powerful  of  old  to  sum- 
mon Genii  in  the  desert,  sound  of  yourselves  and  raise  a 
troop  for  me  in  the  desert  of  my  heart,  which  shall  so  en- 
chant this  dusty  barouche  (with  a conspicuous  excise-plate, 
resembling  the  Collector’s  door-plate  at  a turnpike),  that  I, 
within  it,  loving  the  little  lilac  gloves,  the  winning  little 
bonnet,  and  the  dear  unknown- wearer  with  the  golden  hair, 
may  wait  by  her  side  for  ever,  to  see  a Great  St.  Leger  that 
shall  never  be  run ! ” 

Thursday  morning.  After  a tremendous  night  of  crowd- 
ing, shouting,  drinking-house  expectoration.  Gong-donkey, 
and  correct  cards.  Symptoms  of  yesterday’s  gains  in  the 
way  of  drink,  and  of  yesterday’s  losses  in  the  way  of  money, 
abundant.  Money-losses  very  great.  As  usual,  nolx)dy 
seems  to  have  won;  but,  large  losses  and  many  losers  are 
unquestionable  facts.  Both  Lunatics  and  Keepers,  in  gen- 
eral very  low.  Several  of  both  kinds  look  in  at  the  chem- 
ist’s while  Mr.  Goodchild  is  making  a purchase  there,  to 
be  “picked  up.”  One  red-eyed  Lunatic,  flushed,  faded, 
and  disordered,  enters  hurriedly  and  cries  savagely, 
“Hond  us  a gloss  of  sal  volatile  in  wather,  or  soom 
dommed  thing  o’  thot  sart!  ” Faces  at  the  Betting  Rooms 
' very  long,  and  a tendency  to  bite  nails  observable.  Keep- 
ers likewise  given  this  morning  to  standing  about  solitary, 
^Rh  their  hands  in  their  pockets,  looking  down  at  their 


90  the  lazy  tour  of  two  idle  apprentices. 

boots  as  they  fit  them  into  cracks  of  the  pavement,  and 
then  looking  up  whistling  and  walking  away.  Grand  Al- 
liance Circus  out,  in  procession;  buxom  lady-member  of 
Grand  Alliance,  in  crimson  riding-habit,  fresher  to  look  at, 
even  in  her  paint  under  the  day  sky,  than  the  cheeks  of 
Lunatics  or  Keepers.  Spanish  Cavalier  appears  to  have 
lost  yesterday,  and  jingles  his  bossed  bridle  with  disgust, 
as  if  he  were  paying.  Reaction  also  apparent  at  the  Guild- 
hall opposite,  whence  certain  pickpockets  come  out  hand- 
cuffed together,  with  that  peculiar  walk  which  is  never 
seen  under  any  other  circumstances — a walk  expressive  of 
going  to  jail,  game,  but  still  of  jail  being  in  bad  taste  and 
arbitrary,  and  how  would  you  like  it  if  it  was  you  instead 
of  me,  as  it  ought  to  be ! Mid-day.  Town  filled  as  yes- 
terday , but  not  so  full ; and  emptied  as  yesterday,  but  not 
so  empty.  In  the  evening,  Angel  ordinary  where  every 
Lunatic  and  Keeper  has  his  modest  daily  meal  of  turtle, 
venison,  and  wine,  not  so  crowded  as  yesterday,  and  not 
so  noisy.  At  night,  the  theatre.  More  abstracted  faces  in 
it,  than  one  ever  sees  at  public  assemblies;  such  faces 
wearing  an  expression  which  strongly  reminds  Mr.  Good- 
child  of  the  boys  at  school  who  were  “ going  up  next,’’  with 
their  arithmetic  or  mathematics.  These  boys  are,  no 
doubt,  going  up  to-morrow  with  their  sums  and  figures. 
Mr.  Palmer  and  Mr.  Thurtell  in  the  boxes  0.  P.  Mr. 
Thurtell  and  Mr.  Palmer  in  the  boxes  P.  S.  The  firm  of 
Thurtell,  Palmer,  and  Thurtell,  in  the  boxes  Centre.  A 
most  odious  tendency  observable  in  these  distinguished 
gentlemen  to  put  vile  constructions  on  sufficiently  innocent 
phrases  in  the  play,  and  then  to  applaud  them  in  a Satyr- 
like manner.  Behind  Mr.  Goodchild,  with  a party  of  other 
Lunatics  and  one  Keeper,  the  express  incarnation  of  the 
thing  called  a ^^gent.”  A gentleman  born;  a gent  manu- 
factured. A something  with  a scarf  round  its  neck,  and  a 
slipshod  speech  issuing  from  behind  the  scarf;  more  de- 
praved, more  foolish,  more  ignorant,  more  unable  to  believe 
in  any  noble  or  good  thing  of  any  kind,  than  the  stupidest 
Bosjesman.  The  thing  is  but  a boy  in  years,  and  is  addled 
with  drink.  To  do  its  company  justice,  even  its  company 
is  ashamed  of  it,  as  it  drawls  its  slang  criticisms  on  tlu‘ 
representation,  and  inflames  Mr.  Goodchild  with  a burning 
ardour  to  fling  it  into  the  pit.  Its  remarks  are  so  horrible, 
that  Mr.  Goodchild,  for  the  moment,  even  doubts  whether 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  91 


tliat  is  a wholesome  Art,  which  sets  women  apart  on  a 
high  floor  before  such  a thing  as  this,  though  as  good  as  its 
own  sisters,  or  its  own  mother — whom  Heaven  forgive  for 
bringing  it  into  the  world ! But,  the  consideration  that  a 
low  nature  must  make  a low  world  of  its  own  to  live  in, 
whatever  the  real  materials,  or  it  could  no  more  exist  than 
any  of  us  could  without  the  sense  of  touch,  brings  Mr. 
Goodchild  to  reason : the . rather,  because  the  thing  soon 
drops  its  downy  chin  upon  its  scarf,  and  slobbers  itself 
asleep. 

Friday  morning.  Early  fights.  Gong-donkey,  and  cor- 
rect cards.  Again,  a great  set  towards  the  races,  though 
not  so  great  a set  as  on  Wednesday.  Much  packing  going 
on  too,  up-stairs  at  the  gunsmith’s,  the  wax-chandler’s,  and 
the  serious  stationer’s;  for  there  will  be  a heavy  drift  of 
Lunatics  and  Keepers  to  London  by  the  afternoon  train. 
The  course  as  pretty  as  ever;  the  great  pin-cushion  as  like 
a pin-cushion,  but  not  nearly  so  full  of  pins;  whole  rows 
of  pins  wanting.  On  the  great  event  of  the  day,  both  Lu- 
natics and  Keepers  become  inspired  with  rage;  and  there  is 
a violent  scufiling,  and  a rushing  at  the  losing  jockey,  and 
an  emergence  of  the  said  jockey  from  a swaying  and  mena- 
cing crowd,  protected  by  friends,  and  looking  the  worse  for 
wear;  which  is  a rough  proceeding,  though  animating  to 
see  from  a pleasant  distance.  After  the  great  event,  rills 
begin  to  flow  from  the  pin-cushion  towards  the  railroad; 
the  rills  swell  into  rivers;  the  rivers  soon  unite  into  a lake. 
The  lake  floats  Mr.  Goodchild  into  Doncaster,  past  the 
Itinerant  personage  in  black,  by  the  way-side  telling  him 
from  the  vantage  ground  of  a legibly  printed  placard  on  a 
pole  that  for  all  these  things  the  Lord  will  bring  him  to 
judgment.  No  turtle  and  venison  ordinary  this  evening; 
that  is  all  over.  No  Betting  at  the  rooms;  nothing  there 
but  the  plants  in  pots,  which  have,  all  the  week,  been 
stood  about  the  entry  to  give  it  an  innocent  appearance, 
and  which  have  sorely  sickened  by  this  time. 

Saturday.  Mr.  Idle  wishes  to  know  at  breakfast,  what 
were  those  dreadful  groanings  in  his  bedroom  doorway  in 
the  night?  Mr.  Goodchild  answers.  Nightmare.  Mr. 
Idle  repels  the  calumny,  and  calls  the  waiter.  The  Angel 
is  very  sorry — had  intended  to  explain;  but  you  see,  gen- 
tlemen, there  was  a gentleman  dined  down-stairs  with  two 
more,  and  he  had  lost  a deal  of  money,  and  he  would  drink 


92  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

a deal  of  wine,  and  in  the  night  he  took  the  horrors,’’  and 
got  up;  and  as  his  friends  could  do  nothing  with  him  he 
laid  himself  down  and  groaned  at  Mr.  Idle’s  door.  And 
he  DID  groan  there,”  Mr.  Idle  says;  ^^and  you  will  please 
to  imagine  me  inside,  ‘taking  the  horrors’  too!” 

So  far,  the  picture  of  Doncaster  on  the  occasion  of  its 
great  sporting  anniversary,  offers  probably  a general  repre- 
sentation of  the  social  condition  of  the  town,  in  the  past  as 
well  as  in  the  present  time.  The  sole  local  phenomenon  of 
the  current  year,  which  may  be  considered  as  entirely  un- 
precedented in  its  way,  and  which  certainly  claims,  on  that 
account,  some  slight  share  of  notice,  consists  in  the  actual 
existence  of  one  remarkable  individual,  who  is  sojourning 
in  Doncaster,  and  who,  neither  directly  nor  indirectly,  has 
anything  at  all  to  do,  in  any  capacity  whatever,  with  the 
racing  amusements  of  the  week.  Ranging  throughout  the 
entire  crowd  that  fills  the  town,  and  including  the  inhab- 
itants as  well  as  the  visitors,  nobody  is  to  be  found  alto- 
gether disconnected  with  the  business  of  the  day,  except- 
ing this  one  unparalleled  man.  He  does  not  bet  on  the 
races,  like  the  sporting  men.  He  does  not  assist  the  races, 
like  the  jockeys,  starters,  judges,  and  grooms.  He  does 
not  look  on  at  the  races,  like  Mr.  Goodchild  and  his  fellow- 
spectators.  He  does  not  profit  by  the  races,  like  the  hotel- 
keepers  and  the  tradespeople.  He  does  not  minister  to  the 
necessities  of  the  races,  like  the  booth-keepers,  the  pos- 
tilions, the  waiters,  and  the  hawkers  of  Lists.  He  does 
not  assist  the  attractions  of  the  races,  like  the  actors  at  the 
theatre,  the  riders  at  the  circus,  or  the  posturers  at  the 
Poses  Plastiques.  Absolutely  and  literally,  he  is  the  only 
individual  in  Doncaster  who  stands  by  the  brink  of  the 
full-flowing  race-stream,  and  is  not  swept  away  by  it  in 
common  with  all  the  rest  of  his  species.  Who  is  this  mod- 
ern hermit,  this  recluse  of  the  St.  Leger-Week,  this  in- 
scrutably ungregarious  being,  who  lives  apart  from  the 
amusements  and  activities  of  his  fellow-creatures?  Surely, 
there  is  little  difficulty  in  guessing  that  clearest  and  easiest 
of  all  riddles.  Who  could  he  be,  but  Mr.  Thomas  Idle? 

Thomas  had  suffered  himself  to  be  taken  to  Doncaster, 
just  as  he  would  have  suffered  himself  to  be  taken  to  any 
other  place  in  the  habitable  globe  which  would  guarantee 
him  the  temporary  possession  of  a comfortable  sofa  to  rest 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  93 


his  ankle  on.  Once  established  at  the  hotel,  with  his  leg 
on  one  cushion  and  his  back  against  another,  he  formally 
declined  taking  the  slightest  interest  in  any  circumstance 
whatever  connected  with  the  races,  or  with  the  people  who 
were  assembled  to  see  them.  Francis  Goodchild,  anxious 
that  the  hours  should  pass  by  his  crippled  travelling-com- 
panion as  lightly  as  possible,  suggested  that  his  sofa  should 
be  moved  to  the  window,  and  that  he  should  amuse  him- 
' self  by  looking  out  at  the  moving  panorama  of  humanity, 
which  the  view  from  it  of  the  principal  street  presented. 
Thomas,  however,  steadily  declined  profiting  by  the  sug- 
gestion. 

‘ “ The  farther  I am  from  the  window,”  he  said,  the  bet- 

ter, brother  Francis,  I shall  be  pleased.  I have  nothing  in 
common  with  the  one  prevalent  idea  of  all  those  people 
who  are  passing  in  the  street.  Why  should  I care  to  look 
i at  them?  ” 

I hope  I have  nothing  in  common  with  the  prevalent 
, idea  of  a great  many  of  them,  either,”  answered  Good- 
i child,  thinking  of  the  sporting  gentlemen  whom  he  had 
met  in  the  course  of  his  wanderings  about  Doncaster. 
“But,  surely,  among  all  the  people  who  are  walking  by 

the  house,  at  this  very  moment,  you  may  find ” 

“Not  one  living  creature,”  interposed  Thomas,  “who  is 
not,  in  one  way  or  another,  interested  in  horses,  and  who 
is  not,  in  a greater  or  less  degree,  an  admirer  of  them. 
Now,  I hold  opinions  in  reference  to  these  particular  mem- 
bers of  the  quadruped  creation,  which  may  lay  claim  (as 
I believe)  to  the  disastrous  distinction  of  being  unpar- 
taken by  any  other  human  being,  civilised  or  savage,  over 
the  whole  surface  of  the  earth.  Taking  the  horse  as  an 
! animal  in  the  abstract,  Francis,  I cordially  despise  him 
from  every  point  of  view.” 

“Thomas,”  said  Goodchild,  “confinement  to  the  house 
has  begun  to  affect  your  biliary  secretions.  I shall  go  to 
the  chemist’s  and  get  you  some  physic.” 

“I  object,”  continued  Thomas,  quietly  possessing  him- 
self of  his  friend’s  hat,  which  stood  on  a table  near  him, 
— “ I object,  first,  to  the  personal  appearance  of  the  horse. 
I protest  against  the  conventional  idea  of  beauty,  as  at- 
tached to  that  animal.  I think  his  nose  too  long,  his  fore- 
^ head  too  low,  and  his  legs  (except  in  the  case  of  the  cart- 
horse) ridiculously  thin  by  comparison  with  the  size  of  his 


94  the  LA":Y  tour  of  two  idle  apprentices. 

body.  Again,  considering  how  big  an  animal  he  is,  I ob- 
ject to  the  contemptible  delicacy  of  his  constitution.  Is  he 
not  the  sickliest  creature  in  creation?  Does  any  child  catch 
cold  as  easily  as  a horse?  Does  he  not  sprain  his  fetlock, 
for  all  his  appearance  of  superior  strength,  as  easily  as  I 
sprained  my  ankle!  Furthermore,  to  take  him  from  an- 
other point  of  view,  what  a helpless  wretch  he  is!  No  fine 
lady  requires  more  constant  waitiiig-on  than  a horse. 
Other  animals  can  make  their  own  toilette : he  must  have 
a groom.  You  will  tell  me  that  this  is  because  we  want  to 
make  his  coat  artificially  glossy.  Glossy!  Come  home 
with  me,  and  see  my  cat, — my  clever  cat,  who  can  groom 
herself!  Look  at  your  own  dog!  see  how  the  intelligent 
creature  curry-combs  himself  with  his  own  honest  teeth ! 
Then,  again,  what  a fool  the  horse  is,  what  a poor,  nervous 
fool ! He  will  start  at  a piece  of  white  paper  in  the  road 
as  if  it  was  a lion.  His  one  idea,  when  he  hears  a noise 
that  he  is  not  accustomed  to,  is  to  run  away  from  it.  What 
do  you  say  to  those  two  common  instances  of  the  sense  and 
courage  of  this  absurdly  overpraised  animal?  I might 
multiply  them  to  two  hundred,  if  I chose  to  exert  my  mind 
and  waste  my  breath,  which  I never  do.  I prefer  coming 
at  once  to  my  last  charge  against  the  horse,  which  is  the 
most  serious  of  all,  because  it  affects  his  moral  character. 
I accuse  him  boldly,  in  his  capacity  of  servant  to  man,  of 
slyness  and  treachery.  I brand  him  publicly,  no  matter 
how  mild  he  may  look  about  the  eyes,  or  how  sleek  he  may 
be  about  the  coat,  as  a systematic  betrayer,  whenever  he 
can  get  the  chance,  of  the  confidence  reposed  in  him. 
What  do  you  mean  by  laughing  and  shaking  your  head  at 
me? 

Oh,  Thomas,  Thomas ! said  Goodchild.  You  had 
better  give  me  my  hat;  you  had  better  let  me  get  you  that 
physic.^’ 

I will  let  you  get  anything  you  like,  including  a com- 
posing draught  for  yourself,”  said  Thomas,  irritably  allud- 
ing to  his  fellow-aj^prentice’s  inexhaustible  activity,  ‘Gf 
you  will  only  sit  quiet  for  five  minutes  longer,  and  hear 
me  out.  I say  again  the  horse  is  a betrayer  of  the  confi- 
dence reposed  in  him;  and  that  opinion,  let  me  add,  is 
drawn  from  my  own  personal  experience,  and  is  not  based 
on  any  fanciful  theory  whatever.  You  shall  have  two  in- 
stances, two  overwhelming  instances.  Let  me  start  the 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  96 


first  of  these  by  asking,  what  is  the  distinguishing  quality 
which  the  Shetland  Pony  has  arrogated  to  himself,  and  is 
still  perpetually  trumpeting  through  the  world  by  means 
of  popular  report  and  books  on  Natural  History?  I see 
the  answer  in  your  face ; it  is  the  quality  of  being  Sure- 
Footed.  He  professes  to  have  other  virtues,  such  as  hard- 
iness and  strength,  which  you  may  discover  on  trial;  but  the 
one  thing  which  he  insists  on  your  believing,  when  you  get 
on  his  back,  is  that  he  may  be  safely  depended  on  not  to 
tumble  down  with  you.  Very  good.  Some  years  ago,  I 
was  in  Shetland  with  a party  of  friends.  They  insisted  on 
taking  me  with  them  to  the  top  of  a precipice  that  over- 
hung the  sea.  It  was  a great  distance  off,  but  they  all  de- 
termined to  walk  to  it  except  me.  I was  wiser  then  than 
I was  with  you  at  Carrock,  and  I determined  to  be  carried 
to  the  precipice.  There  was  no  carriage  road  in  the  island, 
and  nobody  offered  (in  consequence,  as  I sujjpose,  of  the 
imperfectly-civilised  state  of  the  country)  to  bring  me  a 
sedan-chair,  which  is  naturally  what  1 should  have  liked 
best.  A Shetland  pony  was  produced  instead.  I remem- 
bered my  Natural  History,  I recalled  popular  report,  and 
I got  on  the  little  beast’s  back,  as  any  other  man  would 
have  done  in  my  position,  placing  implicit  confidence  in  the 
sureness  of  his  feet.  And  how  did  he  repay  that  confi- 
dence? Brother  Francis,  carry  your  mind  on  from  morning 
to  noon.  Picture  to  yourself  a howling  wilderness  of  grass 
and  bog,  bounded  by  low  stony  hills.  Pick  out  one  particu- 
lar spot  in  that  imaginary  scene,  and  sketch  me  in  it,  with 
outstretched  arms,  curved  back,  and  heels  in  the  air, 
plunging  headforemost  into  a black  patch  of  water  and 
mud.  Place  just  behind  me  the  legs,  the  body,  and  the 
head  of  a sure-footed  Shetland  pony,  all  stretched  flat  on 
the  ground,  and  you  will  have  produced  an  accurate  repre- 
sentation of  a very  lamentable  fact.  And  the  moral  device, 
Francis,  of  this  picture  will  be  to  testify  tliat  when  gen- 
tlemen put  confidence  in  the  legs  of  Shetland  ponies,  they 
will  find  to  their  cost  that  they  are  leaning  on  nothing  but 
broken  reeds.  There  is  my  first  instance — and  what  have 
you  got  to  say  to  that?  ” 

“Nothing,  but  that  I want  my  hat,”  answered  Goodchild, 
starting  up  and  walking  restlessly  about  the  room , 

“You  shall  have  it  in  a minute,”  rejoined  Thomas. 

“ My  second  instance”— (Goodchild  groaned,  and  sat  down 


96  THE  LAZY  TOUK  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES. 

again  tlieii) — “ My  second  instance  is  more  appropriate  to 
the  present  time  and  place,  for  it  refers  to  a race-horse. 
Two  years  ago  an  excellent  friend  of  mine,  who  was  desir- 
ous of  prevailing  on  me  to  take  regular  exercise,  and  who 
was  well  enough  acquainted  with  the  weakness  of  my  legs 
to  expect  no  very  active  compliance  with  his  wishes  on 
their  part,  offered  to  make  me  a present  of  one  of  his 
horses.  Hearing  that  the  animal  in  question  had  started* 
in  life  on  the  turf,  I declined  accepting  the  gift  with  many 
thanks;  adding,  by  way  of  explanation,  that  I looked  on  a 
race-horse  as  a kind  of  embodied  hurricane,  upon  which  no 
sane  man  of  my  character  and  habits  could  be  expected  to 
seat  himself.  My  friend  replied  that,  however  appropriate 
my  metaphor  might  be  as  applied  to  race-horses  in  general, 
it  was  singularly  unsuitable  as  applied  to  the  particular 
horse  which  he  proposed  to  give  me.  From  a foal  upwards 
this  remarkable  animal  had  been  the  idlest  and  most  slug- 
gish of  his  race.  Whatever  capacities  for  speed  he  might 
possess  he  had  kept  so  strictly  to  himself,  that  no  amount 
of  training  had  ever  brought  them  out.  He  had  been  found 
hopelessly  slow  as  a racer,  and  hopelessly  lazy  as  a hunter, 
and  was  fit  for  nothing  but  a quiet,  easy  life  of  it  with  an 
old  gentleman  or  an  invalid.  When  I heard  this  account 
of  the  horse,  I don’t  mind  confessing  that  my  heart  warmed 
to  him.  Visions  of  Thomas  Idle  ambling  serenely  on  the 
back  of  a steed  as  lazy  as  himself,  presenting  to  a restless 
world  the  soothing  and  composite  spectacle  of  a kind  of 
sluggardly  Centaur,  too  peaceable  in  his  habits  to  alarm 
anybody,  swam  attractively  before  my  eyes.  I went  to 
look  at  the  horse  in  the  stable.  Nice  fellow!  he  was  fast 
asleep  with  a kitten  on  his  back.  I saw  him  taken  out  for 
an  airing  by  the  groom.  If  he  had  had  trousers  on  his  legs 
I should  not  have  known  them  from  my  own,  so  deliber- 
ately were  they  lifted  up,  so  gently  were  they  put  down,  so 
slowly  did  they  get  over  the  ground.  From  that  moment  I 
gratefully  accepted  my  friend’s  offer.  I went  home;  the 
horse  followed  me — by  a slow  train.  Oh,  Francis,  how  de- 
voutly I believed  in  that  horse!  how  carefully  I looked 
after  all  his  little  comforts ! I had  never  gone  the  length 
of  hiring  a man-servant  to  wait  on  myself;  but  I went  to 
the  expense  of  hiring  one  to  wait  upon  him.  If  I thought 
a little  of  myself  when  I bought  the  softest  saddle  that 
could  be  had  for  money,  I thought  also  of  my  horse. 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  97 


When  the  man  at  the  shop  afterwards  offered  me  spurs 
and  a whip,  I turned  from  him  with  horror.  When  I 
sallied  out  for  my  first  ride,  I went  purposely  unarmed 
with  the  means  of  hurrying  my  steed.  He  proceeded  at 
his  own  pace  every  step  of  the  way;  and  when  he  stopped, 
at  last,  and  blew  out  both  his  sides  with  a heavy  sigh,  and 
turned  his  sleepy  head  and  looked  behind  him,  I took  him 
home  again,  as  I might  take  home  an  artless  child  who  said 
to  me,  ^If  you  please,  sir,  I am  tired.  ^ For  a week  this 
complete  harmony  between  me  and  my  horse  lasted  undis- 
turbed. At  the  end  of  that  time,  when  he  had  made  quite 
sure  of  my  friendly  confidence  in  his  laziness,  when  he  had 
thoroughly  acquainted  himself  with  all  the  little  weak- 
nesses of  my  seat  (and  their  name  is  Legion),  the  smoul- 
dering treachery  and  ingratitude  of  the  equine  nature 
blazed  out  in  an  instant.  Without  the  slightest  provoca- 
tion from  me,  with  nothing  passing  him  at  the  time  but  a 
pony-chaise  driven  by  an  old  lady,  he  started  in  one  in- 
stant from  a state  of  sluggish  depression  to  a state  of  fran- 
tic high  spirits.  He  kicked,  he  plunged,  he  shied,  he 
pranced,  he  capered  fearfully.  I sat  on  him  as  long  as  I 
could,  and  when  I could  sit  no  longer,  I fell  off.  No, 
Francis ! this  is  not  a circumstance  to  be  laughed  at,  but  to 
be  wept  over.  What  would  be  said  of  a Man  who  had  re- 
quited my  kindness  in  that  way?  Range  over  all  the  rest 
of  the  animal  creation,  and  where  will  you  find  me  an  in- 
stance of  treachery  so  black  as  this?  The  cow  that  kicks 
down  the  milking-pail  may  have  some  reason  for  it;  she 
may  think  herself  taxed  too  heavily  to  contribute  to  the 
dilution  of  human  tea  and  the  greasing  of  human  bread. 
The  tiger  who  springs  out  on  me  unawares  has  the  excuse 
of  being  hungry  at  the  time,  to  say  nothing  of  the  further 
justification  of  being  a total  stranger  to  me.  The  very  flea 
who  surprises  me  in  my  sleep  may  defend  his  act  of  assas- 
sination on  the  ground  that  I,  in  my  turn,  am  always  ready 
to  murder  him  when  I am  awake.  I defy  the  whole  body 
of  Natural  Historians  to  move  me,  logically,  off  the  ground 
that  I have  taken  in  regard  to  the  horse.  Receive  back 
your  hat,  brother  Francis,  and  go  to  the  chemist’s,  if  you 
please;  for  I have  now  done.  Ask  me  to  take  anything 
you  like,  except  an  interest  in  the  Doncaster  races.  Ask 
me  to  look  at  anything  you  like,  except  an  assemblage  of 
people  all  animated  by  feelings  of  a friendly  and  admiring 


08  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICEB. 

nature  towards  the  horse.  You  are  a remarkably  well-in- 
formed man,  and  you  have  heard  of  hermits.  Look  upon 
me  as  a member  of  that  ancient  fraternity,  and  you  will 
sensibly  add  to  the  many  obligations  which  Thomas  Idle 
is  proud  to  owe  to  Francis  Goodchild.’^ 

Here,  fatigued  by  the  effort  of  excessive  talking,  dispu- 
tatious Thomas  waved  one  hand  languidly,  laid  his  head 
back  on  the  sofa-pillow,  and  calmly  closed  his  eyes. 

At  a later  period,  Mr.  Goodchild  assailed  his  travelling 
companion  boldly  from  the  impregnable  fortress  of  common 
sense.  But  Thomas,  though  tamed  in  body  by  drastic  dis- 
cipline, was  still  as  mentally  unapproachable  as  ever  on 
the  subject  of  his  favourite  delusion. 

The  view  from  the  window  after  Saturday’s  breakfast  is 
altogether  changed.  The  tradesmen’s  families  have  all 
come  back  again.  The  serious  stationer’s  young  woman  of 
all  work  is  shaking  a duster  out  of  the  window  of  the  com- 
bination breakfast-room;  a child  is  playing  with  a doll, 
where  Mr.  Thurtell’s  hair  was  brushed;  a sanitary  scrub- 
bing is  in  progress  on  the  spot  where  Mr.  Palmer’s  braces 
were  put  on.  No  signs  of  the  Races  are  in  the  streets,  but 
the  tramps  and  the  tumble-down  carts  and  trucks  laden 
with  drinking-forms  and  tables  and  remnants  of  booths, 
that  are  making  their  way  out  of  the  town  as  fast  as  they 
can.  The  Angel,  which  has  been  cleared  for  action  all  the 
week,  already  begins  restoring  every  neat  and  comfortable 
article  of  furniture  to  its  own  neat  and  comfortable  place. 
The  Angel’s  daughters  (pleasanter  angels  Mr.  Idle  and 
Mr.  Goodchild  never  saw,  nor  more  quietly  expert  in  their 
business,  nor  more  superior  to  the  common  vice  of  being 
above  it),  have  a little  time  to  rest,  and  to  air  their  cheer- 
ful faces  among  the  flowers  in  the  yard.  It  is  market-day. 
The  market  looks  unusually  natural,  comfortable,  and 
wholesome;  the  market-people  too.  The  town  seems  quite 
restored,  when,  hark!  a metallic  bray — The  Gong-donkey! 

The  wretched  animal  has  not  cleared  off  with  the  rest, 
but  is  here,  under  the  window.  How  much  more  incon- 
ceivably drunk  now,  how  much  more  begrimed  of  paw,  how 
much  more  tight  of  calico  hide,  how  much  more  stained 
and  daubed  and  dirty  and  dunghilly,  from  his  horrible 
broom  to  his  tender  toes,  who  shall  say ! He  cannot  even 
shake  the  bray  out  of  himself  now,  without  laying  his 


THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPRENTICES.  99 


cheek  so  near  to  the  mud  of  the  street,  that  he  pitches  over 
after  delivering  it.  Now,  prone  in  the  mud,  and  now  back- 
ing himself  up  against  shop- windows,  the  owners  of  which 
come  out  in  terror  to  remove  him;  now,  in  the  drinking- 
shop,  and  now  in  the  tobacconist’s,  where  he  goes  to  buy 
tobacco,  and  makes  his  way  into  the  parlour,  and  where  he 
gets  a cigar,  which  in  half-a-minute  he  forgets  to  smoke; 
now  dancing,  now  dozing,  now  cursing,  and  now  compli- 
menting My  Lord,  the  Colonel,  the  Noble  Captain,  and 
Your  Honourable  Worship,  the  Gong-donkey  kicks  up  his 
heels,  occasionally  braying,  until  suddenly,  he  beholds 
the  dearest  friend  he  has  in  the  world  coming  down  the 
'street. 

Tlie  dearest  friend  the  Gong-donkey  has  in  the  world,  is 
a sort  of  Jackal,  in  a dull  mangy  black  hide,  of  such  small 
pieces  that  it  looks  as  if  i^  made  of  blacking  bottles 
iDurned  inside  out  and  cobbled  together.  The  dearest  friend 
in  the  world  (inconceivab]^^  too)  advances  at  the 

iGong-donkey,  with  a hand  on  each  thigh,  in  a series  of 
humorous  springs  and  stops,  wagging  his  head  as  he 
3omes.  The  Gong-donkey  regarding  him  with  attention 
and  with  the  wannest  affection,  suddenly  perceives  that 
he  is  the  greatest  enemy  he  has  in  the  world,  and  hits  him 
hard  in  the  countenance.  The  astonished  Jackal  closes 
with  the  Donkey,  and  they  roll  over  and  over  in  the  mud, 
pummelling  one  another.  A Police  Inspector,  supernatu- 
rally  endowed  with  patience,  who  has  long  been  looking  on 
from  the  Guildhall-steps,  says,  to  a myrmidon,  ^‘Lock  ’em 
up!  Bring ’em  in!” 

Appropriate  finish  to  the  Grand  Race-Week.  The  Gong- 
ionkey,  captive  and  last  trace  of  it,  conveyed  into  limbo, 
where  they  cannot  do  better  than  keep  him  until  next 
Race- Week.  The  Jackal  is  wanted  too,  and  is  much 
looked  for,  over  the  way  and  up  and  down.  But,  having 
had  the  good-fortune  to  be  undermost  at  the  time  of  the 
capture,  he  has  vanished  into  air. 

On  Saturday  afternoon,  Mr.  Goodchild  walks  out  and 
looks  at  the  Course.  It  is  quite  deserted;  heaps  of  broken 
mockery  and  bottles  are  raised  to  its  memory;  and  correct 
3ards  and  other  fragments  of  paper  are  blowing  about  it, 
is  the  regulation  little  paper-books,  carried  by  the  French 
. soldiers  in  their  breasts,  were  seen,  soon  after  the  battle 
was  fought,  blowing  idly  about  the  plains  of  Waterloo. 


100  THE  LAZY  TOUR  OF  TWO  IDLE  APPREN  TICES. 

Where  will  these  present  idle  leaves  be  blown  by  the 
idle  winds,  and  where  will  the  last  of  them  be  one  day  lost 
and  forgotten?  An  idle  question,  and  an  idle  thought; 
and  with  it  Mr.  Idle  fitly  makes  his  bow,  and  Mr.  Good- 
child  his,  and  thus  ends  the  Lazy  Tour  of  Two  Idle  Ap- 
prentices. 


UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


THE 


UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


I. 

HIS  GENERAL  LINE  OP  BUSINESS. 

Allow  me  to  introduce  myself — first  negatively. 

No  landlord  is  my  friend  and  brother,  no  chambermaid 
loves  me,  no  waiter  worships  me,  no  boots  admires  and  en- 
vies me.  No  round  of  beef  or  tongue  or  ham  is  expressly 
cooked  for  me,  no  pigeon-pie  is  especially  made  for  me,  no 
hotel-advertisement  is  personally  addressed  to  me,  no  hotel- 
room  tapestried  with  greatcoats  and  railway  wrappers  is 
set  apart  for  me,  no  house  of  public  entertainment  in  the 
United  Kingdom  greatly  cares  for  my  opinion  of  its  brandy 
or  sherry.  When  I go  upon  my  journeys,  I am  not  usually 
rated  at  a low  figure  in  the  bill;  when  I come  home  from 
my  journeys,  I never  get  any  commission.  I know  nothing 
about  prices,  and  should  have  no  idea,  if  I were  put  to  it, 
how  to  wheedle  a man  into  ordering  something  he  doesn4 
want.  As  a town  traveller,  I am  never  to  be  seen  driving 
a vehicle  externally  like  a young  and  volatile  pianoforte 
van,  and  internally  like  an  oven  in  which  a number  of  fiat 
boxes  are  baking  in  layers.  As  a country  traveller,  I am 
rarely  to  be  found  in  a gig,  and  am  never  to  be  encountered 
by  a pleasure  train,  waiting  on  the  platform  of  a branch 
station,  quite  a Druid  in  the  midst  of  a light  Stonehenge 
of  samples. 

And  yet — proceeding  now,  to  introduce  myself  positively 
— I am  both  a town  traveller  and  a country  traveller,  and 
am  always  on  the  road.  Figuratively  speaking,  I travel 
for  the  great  house  of  Human  Interest  Brothers,  and  have 
rather  a large  connection  in  the  fancy  goods  way.  Liter- 


2 THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

ally  speaking,  I am  always  wandering  here  and  there  from 
my  rooms  in  Covent-garden,  London— now  about  the  city 
streets:  now,  about  the  country  by-roads — seeing  many 
little  things,  and  some  great  things,  which,  because  they 
interest  me,  I think  may  interest  others. 

These  are  my  brief  credentials  as  the  Uncommercial 
Traveller. 


IL 

THE  SHIPWRECK. 

Never  had  I seen  a year  going  out,  or  going  on,  under 
quieter  circumstances.  Eighteen  hundred  and  fifty-nine 
had  but  another  day  to  live,  and  truly  its  end  was  Peace 
on  that  sea-shore  that  morning. 

So  settled  and  orderly  was  everything  seaward,  in  the 
bright  light  of  the  sun  and  under  the  transparent  shadows 
of  the  clouds,  that  it  was  hard  to  imagine  the  bay  other- 
wise, for  years  past  or  to  come,  than  it  was  that  very  day. 
The  Tug-steamer  lying  a little  off  the  shore,  the  Lighter 
lying  still  nearer  to  the  shore,  the  boat  alongside  the 
Lighter,  the  regularly-turning  windlass  aboard  the  Lighter, 
the  methodical  figures  at  work,  all  slowly  and  regularly 
heaving  up  and  down  with  the  breathing  of  the  sea,  all 
seemed  as  much  a part  of  the  nature  of  the  place  as  the 
tide  itself.  The  tide  was  on  the  flow,  and  had  been  for 
some  two  hours  and  a half;  there  was  a slight  obstruction 
in  the  sea  within  a few  yards  of  my  feet : as  if  the  stump 
of  a tree,  with  earth  enough  about  it  to  keep  it  from  lying 
horizontally  on  the  water,  had  slipped  a little  from  the 
land — and  as  I stood  upon  the  beach  and  observed  it  dim- 
pling the  light  swell  that  was  coming  in,  I cast  a stone 
over  it. 

So  orderly,  so  quiet,  so  regular — the  rising  and  falling 
of  the  Tug-steamer,  the  Lighter,  and  the  boat — the  turn- 
ing of  the  windlass — the  coming  in  of  the  tide — that  I 
myself  seemed,  to  my  own  thinking,  anything  but  new  to 
the  spot.  Yet,  I had  never  seen  it  in  my  life,  a minute 
before,  and  had  traversed  two  hundred  miles  to  get  at  it. 
That  very  morning  I had  come  bowling  down,  and  strug- 
gling up,  hill-country  roads;  looking  back  at  snowy  sum- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


3 


mits;  meeting  courteous  peasants  well  to  do,  driving  fat 
pigs  and  cattle  to  market:  noting  the  neat  and  thrifty 
dwellings,  with  their  unusual  quantity  of  clean  white  linen, 
drying  on  the  bushes;  having  windy  weather  suggested  by 
every  cotter^s  little  rick,  with  its  thatched  straw-ridged 
and  extra  straw-ridged  into  overlapping  compartments  like 
the  back  of  a rhinoceros.  Had  I not  given  a lift  of  four- 
teen miles  to  the  Coast-guardsm^  (kit  and  all),  who  was 
coming  to  his  spell  of  duty  there,  and  had  we  not  just  now 
parted  company?  So  it  was;  but  the  journey  seemed  to 
glide  down  into  the  placid  sea,  with  other  chafe  and  trouble, 
and  for  the  moment  nothing  was  so  calmly  and  monoto- 
nously real  under  the  sunlight  as  the  gentle  rising  and 
falling  of  the  water  with  its  freight,  the  regular  turning 
of  the  windlass  aboard  the  Lighter,  and  the  slight  obstruc- 
tion so  very  near  my  feet. 

O reader,  haply  turning  this  page  by  the  fireside  at 
Home,  and  hearing  the  night  wind  rumble  in  the  chimney, 
that  slight  obstruction  was  the  uppermost  fragment  of  the 
Wreck  of  the  Royal  Charter,  Australian  trader  and  pas- 
senger ship.  Homeward  bound,  that  struck  here  on  the  ter- 
rible morning  of  the  twenty-sixth  of  this  October,  broke 
into  three  parts,  Avent  down  with  her  treasure  of  at  least 
five  hundred  human  lives,  and  has  never  stirred  since ! 

From  which  point,  or  from  which,  she  drove  ashore, 
stern  foremost;  on  which  side,  or  on  which,  she  passed  the 
little  Island  in  the  bay,  for  ages  henceforth  to  be  aground 
certain  yards  outside  her;  these  are  rendered  bootless 
questions  by  the  darkness  of  that  night  and  the  darkness 
of  death.  Here  she  went  down. 

Even  as  I stood  on  the  beach  with  the  words  Here  she 
went  down ! in  my  ears,  a diver  in  his  grotesque  dress, 
dipped  heavily  over  the  side  of  the  boat  alongside  the 
Lighter,  and  dropped  to  the  bottom.  On  the  shore  by  the 
water’s  edge,  Avas  a rough  tent,  made  of  fragments  of 
Avreck,  Avhere  other  divers  and  workmen  sheltered  them- 
selves, and  Avhere  they  had  kept  Christmas-day  with  rum 
and  roast  beef,  to  the  destruction  of  their  frail  chimney. 
Cast  up  among  the  stones  and  boulders  of  the  beach,  were 
great  spars  of  the  lost  vessel,  and  masses  of  iron  twisted 
by  the  fury  of  the  sea  into  the  strangest  forms.  The  tim- 
ber was  already  bleached  and  iron  rusted,  and  even  these 
objects  did  no  violence  to  the  prevailing  air  the  whole 


4 


THE  UNCOMMEKCTAL  TRAVELLER. 


scene  wore,  of  having  been  exactly  the  same  for  years  and 
years. 

Yet,  only  two  short  months  had  gone,  since  a man,  liv- 
ing on  the  nearest  hill- top  overlooking  the  sea,  being  blown 
out  of  bed  at  about  daybreak  by  the  wind  that  had  begun 
to  strip  his  roof  off,  and  getting  upon  a ladder  with  his 
nearest  neighbour  to  construct  some  temporary  device  for 
keeping  his  house  over  his  head,  saw  from  the  ladder’s 
elevation  as  he  looked  down  by  chance  towards  the  shore, 
some  dark  troubled  object  close  in  with  the  land.  And  he 
and  the  other,  descending  to  the  beach,  and  finding  the  sea 
mercilessly  beating  over  a great  broken  ship,  had  clam- 
bered up  the  stony  ways,  like  staircases  without  stairs,  on 
which  the  wild  village  hangs  in  little  clusters,  as  fruit 
hangs  on  boughs,  and  had  given  the  alarm.  And  so,  over 
the  hill-slopes,  and  past  the  waterfall,  and  down  the  gul- 
lies where  the  land  drains  off  into  the  ocean,  the  scattered 
quarry  men  and  fishermen  inhabiting  that  part  of  Wales 
had  come  running  to  the  dismal  sight— their  clergyman 
among  them.  And  as  they  stood  in  the  leaden  morning, 
stricken  with  pity,  leaning  hard  against  the  wind,  their 
breath  and  vision  often  failing  as  the  sleet  and  spray 
rushed  at  them  from  the  ever  forming  and  dissolving 
mountains  of  sea,  and  as  the  wool  which  was  a part  of  the 
vessel’s  cargo  blew  in  with  the  salt  foam  and  remained 
upon  the  land  when  the  foam  melted,  they  saw  the  ship’s 
life-boat  put  off  from  one  of  the  heaps  of  wreck;  and  first, 
there  were  three  men  in  her,  and  in  a moment  she  capsized, 
and  there  were  but  two;  and  again,  she  was  struck  by  a 
vast  mass  of  water,  and  there  was  but  one;  and  again,  she 
was  thrown  bottom  upward,  and  that  one,  with  his  arm 
struck  through  the  broken  planks  and  waving  as  if  for  the 
help  that  could  never  reach  him,  went  down  into  the 
deep. 

It  was  the  clergyman  himself  from  whom  I heard  this, 
while  I stood  on  the  shore,  looking  in  his  kind  wholesome 
face  as  it  turned  to  the  spot  where  the  boat  had  been.  The 
divers  were  down  then,  and  busy.  They  were  “ lifting  ” to- 
day the  gold  found  yesterday — some  five-and-twenty  thou- 
sand pounds.  Of  three  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  pounds’ 
worth  of  gold,  three  hundred  thousand  pounds’  worth,  in 
round  numbers,  was  at  that  time  recovered.  The  great 
bulk  of  the  remainder  was  surely  and  steadily  coming  up. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


5 


Some  loss  of  sovereigns  there  would  be,  of  course;  indeed, 
at  first  sovereigns  had  drifted  in  with  the  sand,  and  been 
scattered  far  and  wide  over  the  beach,  like  sea-shells;  but 
most  other  golden  treasure  would  be  found.  As  it  was 
brought  up,  it  went  aboard  the  Tug-steamer,  where  good 
account  was  taken  of  it.  So  tremendous  had  the  force  of 
the  sea  been  when  it  broke  the  ship,  that  it  had  beaten  one 
great  ingot  of  gold,  deep  into  a strong  and  heavy  piece  of 
her  solid  iron- work:  in  which,  also,  several  loose  sov- 
ereigns that  the  ingot  had  swept  in  before  it,  had  been 
found,  as  firmly  embedded  as  though  the  iron  had  been 
liquid  when  they  were  forced  there.  It  had  been  remarked 
of  such  bodies  come  ashore,  too,  as  had  been  seen  by  sci- 
entific men,  that  they  had  been  stunned  to  death,  and  not 
suffocated.  Observation,  both  of  the  internal  change  that 
I had  been  wrought  in  them,  and  of  their  external  expres- 
sion, showed  death  to  have  been  thus  merciful  and  easy. 
The  report  was  brought,  while  I was  holding  such  discourse 
! on  the  beach,  that  no  more  bodies  had  come  ashore  since 
' last  night.  It  began  to  be  very  doubtful  whether  many 
more  would  be  thrown  up,  until  the  northeast  winds  of  the 
early  spring  set  in.  Moreover,  a great  number  of  the  pas- 
sengers, and  particularly  the  second-class  women-passen- 
gers,  were  known  to  have  been  in  the  middle  of  the  ship 
when  she  parted,  and  thus  the  collapsing  wreck  would 
have  fallen  upon  them  after  yawning  open,  and  would  keep 
them  down.  A diver  made  known,  even  then,  that  he  had 
come  upon  the  body  of  a man,  and  had  sought  to  release  it 
from  a great  superincumbent  weight;  but  that,  finding  he 
could  not  do  so  without  mutilating  the  remains,  he  had  left 
it  where  it  was. 

It  was  the  kind  and  wholesome  face  I have  made  men- 
tion of  as  being  then  beside  me,  that  I had  purposed  to 
myself  to  see,  when  I left  home  for  Wales.  I had  heard 
of  that  clergyman,  as  having  buried  many  scores  of  the  ship- 
wrecked people;  of  his  having  opened  his  house  and  heart 
to  their  agonised  friends;  of  his  having  used  a most  sweet 
and  patient  diligence  for  weeks  and  weeks,  in  the  perform- 
ance of  the  forlornest  offices  that  Man  can  render  to  his 
kind;  of  his  having  most  tenderly  and  thoroughly  devoted 
himself  to  the  dead,  and  to  those  who  were  sorrowing  for 
the  dead.  I had  said  to  myself,  In  the  Christmas  season 
of  the  year,  I should  like  to  see  that  man.”  And  he  had 


6 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


swung  the  gate  of  his  little  garden  in  coming  out  to  meet  me, 
not  half  an  hour  ago. 

So  cheerful  of  spirit  and  guiltless  of  affectation,  as  true 
practical  Christianity  ever  is!  I read  more  of  the  New 
Testament  in  the  fresh  frank  face  going  up  the  village  be- 
side me,  in  five  minutes,  than  I have  read  in  anathematis- 
ing discourses  (albeit  put  to  press  with  enormous  flourish- 
ing of  trumpets),  in  all  my  life.  I heard  more  of  the 
Sacred  Book  in  the  cordial  voice  that  had  nothing  to  say 
about  its  owner,  than  in  all  the  would-be  celestial  pairs  of 
bellows  that  have  ever  blown  conceit  at  me. 

We  climbed  towards  the  little  church,  at  a cheery  pace, 
among  the  loose  stones,  the  deep  mud,  the  wet  coarse 
grass,  the  outlying  water,  and  other  obstructions  from 
which  frost  and  snow  had  lately  thawed.  It  was  a mistake 
(my  friend  was  glad  to  tell  me,  on  the  way)  to  suppose 
that  the  peasantry  had  shown  any  superstitious  avoidance 
of  the  drowned;  on  the  whole,  they  had  done  very  well, 
and  had  assisted  readily.  Ten  shillings  had  been  paid  for 
the  bringing  of  each  body  up  to  the  church,  but  the  way 
was  steep,  and  a horse  and  cart  (in  which  it  was  wrapped 
in  a sheet)  were  necessary,  and  three  or  four  men,  and,  all 
things  considered,  it  was  not  a great  price.  The  people 
were  none  the  richer  for  the  wreck,  for  it  was  the  season 
of  the  herring-shoal — and  who  could  cast  nets  for  fish,  and 
find  dead  men  and  women  in  the  draught? 

He  had  the  church  keys  in  his  hand,  and  opened  the 
churchyard  gate,  and  opened  the  church  door;  and  we 
went  in. 

It  is  a little  church  of  great  antiquity;  there  is  reason  to 
believe  that  some  church  has  occupied  the  spot,  these  thou- 
sand years  or  more.  The  pulpit  was  gone,  and  other  things 
usually  belonging  to  the  church  were  gone,  owing  to  its  liv- 
ing congregation  having  deserted  it  for  the  neighbouring 
school-room,  and  yielded  it  up  to  the  dead.  The  very 
Commandments  had  been  shouldered  out  of  their  places,  in 
the  bringing  in  of  the  dead;  the  black  wooden  tables  on 
which  they  were  painted,  were  askew,  and  on  the  stone 
pavement  below  them,  and  on  the  stone  pavement  all  over 
the  church,  were  the  marks  and  stains  where  the  drowned 
had  been  laid  down.  The  eye,  with  little  or  no  aid  from 
the  imagination,  could  yet  see  how  the  bodies  had  been 
turned,  and  where  the  head  had  been  and  where  the  feet. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


7 


Some  faded  traces  of  the  wreck  of  the  Australian  ship  may 
be  discernible  on  the  stone  pavement  of  this  little  church, 
hundreds  of  years  hence,  when  the  digging  for  gold  in  Aus- 
tralia shall  have  long  and  long  ceased  out  of  the  land. 

Forty-four  shipwrecked  men  and  women  lay  here  at  one 
time,  awaiting  burial.  Here,  with  weeping  and  wailing  in 
every  room  of  this  house,  my  companion  worked  alone  for 
hours,  solemnly  surrounded  by  eyes  that  could  not  see  him, 
and  by  lips  that  could  not  speak  to  him,  patiently  examin- 
ing the  tattered  clothing,  cutting  off  buttons,  hair,  marks 
from  linen,  anything  that  might  lead  to  subsequent  iden- 
tification, studying  faces,  looking  for  a scar,  a bent  finger, 
a crooked  toe,  comparing  letters  sent  to  him  with  the  ruin 
about  him.  My  dearest  brother  had  bright  grey  eyes  and 
a pleasant  smile, one  sister  wrote.  O poor  sister!  well 
for  you  to  be  far  from  here,  and  keep  that  as  your  last  re- 
membrance of  him ! 

The  ladies  of  the  clergyman’s  family,  his  wife  and  two 
sisters-in-law,  came  in  among  the  bodies  often.  It  grew  to 
be  the  business  of  their  lives  to  do  so.  Any  new  arrival 
of  a bereaved  woman  would  stimulate  their  pity  to  com- 
pare the  description  brought,  with  the  dread  realities. 
Sometimes,  they  would  go  back  able  to  say,  I have  found 
him,”  or,  ‘‘I  think  she  lies  there.”  Perhaps,  the  mourner, 
unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  all  that  lay  in  the  church,  would 
be  led  in  blindfold.  Conducted  to  the  spot  with  many  com- 
passionate words,  and  encouraged  to  look,  she  would  say, 
with  a piercing  cry,  This  is  my  boy ! ” and  drop  insensible 
on  the  insensible  figure. 

He  soon  observed  that  in  some  cases  of  women,  the  iden- 
tification of  persons,  though  complete,  was  quite  at  vari- 
ance with  the  marks  upon  the  linen;  this  led  him  to  notice 
that  even  the  marks  upon  the  linen  were  sometimes  incon- 
sistent with  one  another;  and  thus  he  came  to  understand 
that  they  had  dressed  in  great  haste  and  agitation,  and 
that  their  clothes  had  become  mixed  together.  The  iden- 
tification of  men  by  their  dress,  was  rendered  extremely 
difficult,  in  consequence  of  a large  proportion  of  them  being 
dressed  alike — in  clothes  of  one  kind,  that  is  to  say,  sup- 
plied by  slop-sellers  and  outfitters,  and  not  made  by  single 
garments  but  by  hundreds.  Many  of  the  men  were  bring- 
ing over  parrots,  and  had  receipts  upon  them  for  the  price 
of  the  birds;  others  had  bills  of  exchange  in  their  pockets, 


8 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


or  in  belts.  Some  of  these  documents,  carefully  unwrin- 
kled and  dried,  were  little  less  fresh  in  appearance  that 
day,  than  the  present  page  will  be  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances, after  having  been  opened  three  or  four  times. 

In  that  lonely  place,  it  had  not  been  easy  to  obtain  even 
such  common  commodities  in  towns,  as  ordinary  disinfect- 
ants. Pitch  had  been  burnt  in  the  church,  as  the  readiest 
thing  at  hand,  and  the  frying-pan  in  which  it  had  bubbled 
over  a brazier  of  coals  was  still  there,  with  its  ashes.  Hard 
by  the  Communion-Table,  were  some  boots  that  had  been 
taken  off  the  drowned  and  preserved — a gold-digger’s  boot, 
cut  down  the  leg  for  its  removal — a trodden-down  man’s 
ankle-boot  with  a buff  cloth  top — and  others — soaked  and 
sandy,  weedy  and  salt. 

From  the  church,  we  passed  out  into  the  churchyard. 
Here,  there  lay,  at  that  time,  one  hundred  and  forty-five 
bodies,  that  had  come  ashore  from  the  wreck.  He  had 
buried  them,  when  not  identified,  in  graves  containing  four 
each.  He  had  numbered  each  body  in  a register  describ- 
ing it,  and  had  placed  a corresponding  number  on  each 
coffin,  and  over  each  grave.  Identified  bodies  he  had 
buried  singly,  in  private  graves,  in  another  part  of  the 
churchyard.  Several  bodies  had  been  exhumed  from  graves 
of  four,  as  relatives  had  come  from  a distance  and  seen  his 
register;  and,  when  recognised,  these  have  been  reburied 
in  private  graves,  so  that  the  mourners  might  erect  sepa- 
rate headstones  over  the  remains.  In  all  such  cases  he  had 
performed  the  funeral  service  a second  time,  and  the  ladies 
of  his  house  had  attended.  There  had  been  no  offence  in 
the  poor  ashes  when  they  were  brought  again  to  the  light 
of  day;  the  beneficent  Earth  had  already  absorbed  it. 
The  drowned  were  buried  in  their  clothes.  To  supply  the 
great  sudden  demand  for  coffins,  he  had  got  all  the  neigh- 
bouring people  handy  at  tools,  to  work  the  livelong  day, 
and  Sunday  likewise.  The  coffins  were  neatly  formed; — I 
had  seen  two,  waiting  for  occupants,  under  the  lee  of  the 
ruined  walls  of  a stone  hut  on  the  beach,  within  call  of  the 
tent  where  the  Christmas  Feast  was  held.  Similarly,  one 
of  the  graves  for  four  was  lying  open  and  ready,  here,  in 
the  churchyard.  So  much  of  the  scanty  space  was  already 
devoted  to  the  wrecked  people,  that  the  villagers  had  be- 
gun to  express  uneasy  doubts  whether  they  themselves 
could  lie  in  their  own  ground,  with  their  forefathers  and 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


9 


descendants,  by-and-bye.  The  churchyard  being  but  a step 
from  the  clergyman’s  dwelling-house,  we  crossed  to  the 
latter;  the  white  surplice  was  hanging  up  near  the  door 
ready  to  be  put  on  at  any  time,  for  a funeral  service. 

The  cheerful  earnestness  of  this  good  Christian  minister 
was  as  consolatory,  as  the  circumstances  out  of  which  it 
shone  were  sad.  I never  have  seen  anything  more  delight- 
fully  genuine  than  the  calm  dismissal  by  himself  and  his 
household  of  all  they  had  undergone,  as  a simple  duty  that 
was  quietly  done  and  ended.  In  speaking  of  it,  they  spoke 
of  it  with  great  compassion  for  the  bereaved;  but  laid  no 
stress  upon  their  own  hard  share  in  those  weary  weeks,  ex- 
cept as  it  had  attached  many  people  to  them  as  friends,  and 
elicited  many  touching  expressions  of  gratitude.  This 
clergyman’s  brother— himself  the  clergyman  of  two  adjoin- 
ing parishes,  who  had  buried  thirty-four  of  the  bodies  in 
his  own  churchyard,  and  who  had  done  to  them  all  that  his 
brother  had  done  as  to  the  larger  number — must  be  under- 
stood as  included  in  the  family.  He  was  there,  with  his 
neatly  arranged  papers,  and  made  no  more  account  of  his 
trouble  than  anybody  else  did.  Down  to  yesterday’s  post 
outward,  my  clergyman  alone  had  written  one  thousand 
and  seventy-five  letters  to  relatives  and  friends  of  the  lost 
people.  In  the  absence  of  self-assertion,  it  was  only 
through  my  now  and  then  delicately  putting  a question  as 
the  occasion  arose,  that  I became  informed  of  these  things. 
It  was  only  when  I had  remarked  again  and  again,  in  the 
church,  on  the  awful  nature  of  the  scene  of  death  he  had 
been  required  so  closely  to  familiarise  himself  with  for  the 
soothing  of  the  living,  that  he  had  casually  said,  without 
the  least  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness,  “ indeed,  it  had 
rendered  him  unable  for  a time  to  eat  or  drink  more  than  a 
little  coffee  now  and  then,  and  a piece  of  bread.” 

In  this  noble  modesty,  in  this  beautiful  simplicity,  in 
this  serene  avoidance  of  the  least  attempt  to  “ improve  ” an 
occasion  which  might  be  supposed  to  have  sunk  of  its  own 
weight  into  my  heart,  I seemed  to  have  happily  come,  in  a 
few  steps,  from  the  churchyard  with  its  open  grave,  which 
was  the  type  of  Death,  to  the  Christian  dwelling  side  by 
side  with  it,  which  was  the  type  of  Resurrection.  I never 
shall  think  of  the  former,  without  the  latter.  The  two 
will  always  rest  side  by  side  in  my  memory.  If  I had  lost 
any  one  dear  to  me  in  this  unfortunate  ship,  if  I had  made 


10 


THE  UlSTCOMMERCIAL  TRxiVELLER. 


a voyage  from  Australia  to  look  at  the  grave  in  the  church- 
yard, I should  go  away,  thankful  to  God  that  that  house 
was  so  close  to  it,  and  that  its  shadow  by  day  and  its  do- 
mestic lights  by  night  fell  upon  the  earth  in  which  its  Mas- 
ter had  so  tenderly  laid  my  dear  one’s  head. 

The  references  that  naturally  arose  out  of  our  conversa- 
tion, to  the  descriptions  sent  down  of  shipwrecked  persons, 
and  to  the  gratitude  of  relations  and  friends,  made  me  very 
anxious  to  see  some  of  those  letters.  I was  presently 
seated  before  a shipwreck  of  papers,  all  bordered  with 
black,  and  from  them  I made  the  following  few  extracts. 

A mother  writes : 

Keverend  Sir.  Amongst  the  many  who  perished  on 
your  shore  was  numbered  my  beloved  son.  I was  only  just 
recovering  from  a severe  illness,  and  this  fearful  affliction 
has  caused  a relapse,  so  that  I am  unable  at  present  to  go 
to  identify  the  remains  of  the  loved  and  lost.  My  darling 
son  would  have  been  sixteen  on  Christmas-day  next.  He 
was  a most  amiable  and  obedient  child,  early  taught  the 
way  of  salvation.  We  fondly  hoped  that  as  a British  sea- 
man he  might  be  an  ornament  to  his  profession,  but,  “ it  is 
well;”  I feel  assured  my  dear  boy  is  now  with  the  re- 
deemed. Oh,  he  did  not  wish  to  go  this  last  voyage ! On 
the  fifteenth  of  October,  I received  a letter  from  him  from 
Melbourne,  date  August  twelfth;  he  wrote  in  high  spirits, 
and  in  conclusion  he  says : Pray  for  a fair  breeze,  dear 

mamma,  and  I’ll  not  forget  to  whistle  for  it!  and,  God 
permitting,  I shall  see  you  and  all  my  little  pets  again. 
Good  bye,  dear  mother — good  bye,  dearest  parents.  Good 
bye,  dear  brother.”  Oh,  it  was  indeed  an  eternal  farewell. 
I do  not  apologise  for  thus  writing  you,  for  oh,  my  heart  is 
so  very  sorrowful. 

A husband  writes : 

My  dear  kind  Sir.  Will  you  kindly  inform  me  whether 
there  are  any  initials  upon  the  ring  and  guard  you  have  in 
possession,  found,  as  the  Standard  says,  last  Tuesday? 
Believe  me,  my  dear  sir,  when  I say  that  T cannot  express 
my  deep  gratitude  in  words  sufflciently  for  your  kindness 
to  me  on  that  fearful  and  appalling  day.  Will  you  tell 
me  what  I can  do  for  you,  and  will  you  write  me  a coiisoh 
ing  letter  to  prevent  my  mind  from  going  astray? 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  11 

A widow  writes : 

Left  in  such  a state  as  I am,  my  friends  and  I thought 
it  best  that  my  dear  husband  should  be  buried  where  he 
lies,  and,  much  as  I should  have  liked  to  have  had  it  other-, 
wise,  I must  submit.  I feel,  from  all  1 have  heard  of  you, 
that  you  will  see  it  done  decently  and  in  order.  Little 
does  it  signify  to  us,  when  the  soul  has  departed,  where 
this  poor  body  lies,  but  we  who  are  left  behind  would  do 
all  we  can  to  show  how  we  loved  them.  This  is  denied 
me,  but  it  is  God’s  hand  that  afflicts  us,  and  I try  to  sub- 
mit. Some  day  I may  be  able  to  visit  the  spot,  and  see 
where  he  lies,  and  erect  a simple  stone  to  his  memory. 
Oh!  it  will  be  long,  long  before  I forget  that  dreadful 
night!  Is  there  such  a thing  in  the  vicinity,  or  any  shop 
in  Bangor,  to  which  I could  send  for  a small  picture  of 
Moelfra  or  Llanallgo  church,  a spot  now  sacred  to  me? 

Another  widow  writes : 

I have  received  your  letter  this  morning,  and  do  thank 
you  most  kindly  for  the  interest  you  have  taken  about  my 
dear  husband,  as  well  for  the  sentiments  yours  contains, 
evincing  the  spirit  of  a Christian  who  can  sympathise  with 
those  who,  like  myself,  are  broken  down  with  grief. 

May  God  bless  and  sustain  you,  and  all  in  connection 
with  you,  in  this  great  trial.  Time  may  roll  on  and  bear 
all  its  sons  away,  but  your  name  as  a disinterested  person 
will  stand  in  history,  and,  as  successive  years  pass,  many 
a widow  will  think  of  your  noble  conduct,  and  the  tears  of 
gratitude  flow  down  many  a cheek,  the  tribute  of  a thank- 
ful heart,  when  other  things  are  forgotten  for  ever. 

A father  writes : 

I am  at  a loss  to  find  words  to  sufficiently  express  my 
gratitude  to  you  for  your  kindness  to  my  son  Richard  upon 
the  melancholy  occasion  of  his  visit  to  his  dear  brother’s 
) ^i^d  also  for  your  ready  attention  in  pronouncing  our 
beautiful  burial  service  over  my  poor  unfortunate  son’s  re- 
mains. God  grant  that  your  prayers  over  him  may  reach 
toe  Mercy  Seat,  and  that  his  soul  uiay  be  received  (through 
Christ’s  intercession)  into  heaven  ! 

His  dear  mother  begs  me  to  convey  to  you  her  heartfelt 
thanks. 


12 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Those  who  were  received  at  the  clergyman’s  house,  write 
thus,  after  leaving  it; 

Dear  and  never-to-be-forgotten  Friends.  I arrived 
here  yesterday  morning  without  accident,  and  am  about  to 
proceed  to  my  home  by  railway. 

I am  overpowered  when  I think  of  you  and  your  hospi- 
table home.  No  words  could  speak  language  suited  to  my 
heart.  I refrain.  God  reward  you  with  the  same  meas- 
ure you  have  meted  with ! 

I enumerate  no  names,  but  embrace  you  all. 

My  beloved  Friends.  This  is  the  first  day  that  I 
have  been  able  to  leave  my  bedroom  since  I returned,  which 
will  explain  the  reason  of  my  not  writing  sooner. 

If  I could  only  have  had  my  last  melancholy  hope  real- 
ised in  recovering  the  body  of  my  beloved  and  lamented 
son,  I should  have  returned  home  somewhat  comforted, 
and  I think  I could  then  have  been  comparatively  resigned. 

I fear  now  there  is  but  little  prospect,  and  I mourn  as 
one  without  hope. 

The  only  consolation  to  my  distressed  mind  is  in  having 
been  so  feelingly  allowed  by  you  to  leave  the  matter  in 
your  hands,  by  whom  I well  know  that  everything  will  be 
done  that  can  be,  according  to  arrangements  made  before  I 
left  the  scene  of  the  awful  catastrophe,  both  as  to  the  iden- 
tification of  my  dear  son,  and  also  his  interment. 

I feel  most  anxious  to  hear  whether  anything  fresh  has 
transpired  since  I left  you;  will  you  add  another  to  the 
many  deep  obligations  I am  under  to  you  by  writing  to  me? 
And  should  the  body  of  my  dear  and  unfortunate  son  be 
identified,  let  me  hear  from  you  immediately,  and  I will 
come  again. 

Words  cannot  express  the  gratitude  I feel  I owe  to  you 
all  for  your  benevolent  aid,  your  kindness,  and  your  sym- 
pathy. 

My  dearly  beloved  Friends.  I arrived  in  safety  at 
my  house  yesterday,  and  a night’s  rest  has  restored  and 
tranquillised  me.  I must  again  repeat,  that  language  has 
no  words  by  which  I call  express  my  sense  of  obligation  to 
you.  You  are  enshrined  in  my  heart  of  hearts. 

I have  seen  him!  and  can  now  realise  my  misfortune 
more  than  I have  hitherto  been  able  to  do.  Oh,  the  bitter- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  IS 

ness  of  the  cup  I drink ! But  I bow  submissive.  God  must 
have  done  right.  I do  not  want  to  feel  less,  but  to  ac- 
quiesce more  simply. 

There  were  some  Jewish  passengers  on  board  the  Eoyal 
Charter,  and  the  gratitude  of  the  Jewish  people  is  feelingly 
expressed  in  the  following  letter  bearing  date  from  the 
oflSce  of  the  Chief  Eabbi : 

Eeverend  Sir.  I cannot  refrain  from  expressing  to  you 
my  heartfelt  thanks  on  behalf  of  those  of  my  flock  whose 
relatives  have  unfortunately  been  among  those  who  per- 
ished at  the  late  wreck  of  the  Eoyal  Charter.  You  have, 
indeed,  like  Boaz,  ^^not  left  off  your  kindness  to  the  liviner 
and  the  dead.^’ 

You  have  not  alone  acted  kindly  towards  the  living  by 
receiving  them  hospitably  at  your  house,  and  energetically 
assisting  them  in  their  mournful  duty,  but  also  towards  the 
dead,  by  exerting  yourself  to  have  our  co-religionists  buried 
in  our  ground,  and  according  to  our  rites.  May  our  heav- 
enly Father  reward  you  for  your  acts  of  humanity  and  true 
philanthropy ! 

The  Old  Hebrew  congregation  of  Liverpool  thus  ex- 
press themselves  through  their  secretary : 

Eeverend  Sir.  The  wardens  of  this  congregation  have 
learned  with  great  pleasure  that,  in  addition  to  those  in- 
defatigable exertions,  at  the  scene  of  the  late  disaster  to 
the  Eoyal  Charter,  which  have  received  universal  recogni- 
tion, you  have  very  benevolently  employed  your  valuable 
efforts  to  assist  such  members  of  our  faith  as  have  sought 
the  bodies  of  lost  friends  to  give  them  burial  in  our  conse- 
crated grounds,  with  the  observances  and  rites  prescribed 
by  the  ordinances  of  our  religion. 

The  wardens  desire  me  to  take  the  earliest  available  op- 
portunity to  offer  to  you,  on  behalf  of  our  community,  the 
expression  of  their  warm  acknowledgments  and  grateful 
thanks,  and  their  sincere  wishes  for  your  continued  welfare 
and  prosperity. 

A Jewish  gentleman  writes: 

Eeverend  and  dear  Sir.  I take  the  opportunity  of 
thanking  you  right  earnestly  for  the  promptness  you  dis- 
played  in  answering  my  note  with  full  particulars  concern- 


14 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


ing  my  much  lamented  brother,  and  I also  herein  beg  to 
express  my  sincere  regard  for  the  willingness  you  displayed 
and  for  the  facility  you  afforded  for  getting  the  remains  of 
my  poor  brother  exhumed.  It  has  been  to  us  a most  sor- 
rowful and  painful  event,  but  when  we  meet  with  such 
friends  as  yourself,  it  in  a measure,  somehow  or  other, 
abates  that  mental  anguish,  and  makes  the  suffering  so 
much  easier  to  be  borne.  Considering  the  circumstances 
connected  with  my  poor  brother’s  fate,  it  does,  indeed,  ap- 
pear a hard  one.  He  had  been  away  in  all  seven  years; 
he  returned  four  years  ago  to  see  his  family.  He  was  then 
engaged  to  a very  amiable  young  lady.  He  had  been  very 
successful  abroad,  and  was  now  returning  to  fulfil  his  sa- 
cred vow;  he  brought  all  his  property  with  him  in  gold 
uninsured.  We  heard  from  him  when  the  ship  stopped  at 
Queenstown,  when  he  was  in  the  highest  of  hope,  and  in  a 
few  short  hours  afterwards  all  was  washed  away. 

Mournful  in  the  deepest  degree,  but  too  sacred  for  quo- 
tation here,  were  the  numerous  references  to  those  minia- 
tures of  women  worn  round  the  necks  of  rough  men  (and 
found  there  after  death),  those  locks  of  hair,  those  scraps 
of  letters,  those  many  many  slight  memorials  of  hidden 
tenderness.  One  man  cast  up  by  the  sea  bore  about  him, 
printed  on  a perforated  lace  card,  the  following  singular 
(and  unavailing)  charm : 

A BLESSING. 

May  the  blessing  of  God  await  thee.  May  the  sun  of 
glory  shine  around  thy  bed;  and  may  the  gates  of  plenty, 
honour,  and  happiness  be  ever  open  to  thee.  May  no  sor- 
row distress  thy  days;  may  no  grief  disturb  thy  nights. 
May  the  pillow  of  peace  kiss  thy  cheek,  and  the  pleasures 
of  imagination  attend  thy  dreams;  and  when  length  of 
years  makes  thee  tired  of  earthly  joys,  and  the  cui;tain  of 
death  gently  closes  around  thy  last  sleep  of  human  exist- 
ence, may  the  Angel  of  God  attend  thy  bed,  and  take  care 
that  the  expiring  lamp  of  life  shall  not  receive  one  rude 
blast  to  hasten  on  its  extinction. 

A sailor  had  these  devices  on  his  right  arm.  ‘‘Our  Sa- 
viour on  the  Cross,  the  forehead  of  the  Crucifix  and  the 
vesture  stained  red;  on  the  lower  part  of  the  arm,  a man 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


15 


and  woman;  on  one  side  of  the  Cross,  the  appearance  of  a 
half  moon,  with  a face;  on  the  other  side,  the  sun;  ou  the 
top  of  the  Cross,  the  letters  I.  H.  S.;  on  the  left  arm,  a 
man  and  woman  dancing,  with  an  effort  to  delineate  the 
female's  dress;  under  which,  initials."  Another  seaman 
had,  on  the  lower  part  of  the  right  arm,  the  device  of  a 
sailor  and  a female;  the  man  holding  the  Union  Jack  with 
a streamer,  the  folds  of  which  waved  over  her  head,  and 
the  end  of  it  was  held  in  her  hand.  On  the  upper  part  of 
the  aim,  a device  of  Our  Lord  on  the  Cross,  with  stars  sur- 
rounding the  head  of  the  Cross,  and  one  large  star  on  the 
side  in  Indian  ink.  On  the  left  arm,  a flag,  a true  lover's 
knot,  a face,  and  initials."  This  tattooing  was  found  still 
plain,  below  the  discoloured  outer  surface  of  a mutilated 
aim,  when  such  surface  was  carefully  scraped  away  with  a 
; knife.  It  is  not  improbable  that  the  perpetuation  of  this 
marking  custom  among  seamen,  maybe  referred  back  to 
their  desire  to  be  identified,  if  drowned  and  flung  ashore. 

I It  was  some  time  before  I could  sever  myself  from  the 
many  interesting  papers  on  the  table,  and  then  I broke 
bread  and  drank  wine  with  the  kind  family  before  I left 
^em.  As  I brought  the  Coast-guard  down,  so  I took  the 
Postman  back,  with  his  leathern  wallet,  walking  stick, 
bugle,  and  terrier  dog.  Many  a heart-broken  letter  had  he 
brought  to  the  Rectory  House  within  two  months;  many  a 
benignantly  painstaking  answer  had  he  carried  back. 

As  I rode  along,  I thought  of  the  many  people,  inhab- 
itants of  this  mother  country,  who  would  make  pilgrimages 
to  the  little  churchyard  in  the  years  to  come;  I tlioiight  of 
the  many  people  in  Australia,  who  would  have  an  interest 
in  such  a shipwreck,  and  would  find  their  way  here  when 
they  visit  the  Old  World;  I thought  of  the  writers  of  all 
the  wreck  of  letters  I had  left  upon  the  table;  and  I re- 
solved to  place  this  little  record  where  it  stands.  Convo- 
sations,  Conferences,  Diocesan  Epistles,  and  the  like,  will 
io  a great  deal  for  Eeligion,  I dare  say,  and  Heaven  send 
;hey  may ! but  I doubt  if  they  will  ever  do  their  Master’s 
■service  half  so  well,  in  all  the  time  they  last,  as  the  Heav- 
;ns  have  seen  it  done  in  this  bleak  spot  upon  the  rugged 
ioast  of  Wales. 

Had  I lost  the  friend  of  my  life,  in  the  wreck  of  the 


16 


THE  UNCOMMEKCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


lost  my  hopeful  boy,  had  I lost  my  little  child;  I would 
kiss  the  hands  that  worked  so  busily  and  gently  in  the 
church,  and  say,  ^^Kone  better  could  have  touched  the 
form,  though  it  had  lain  at  home.”  I could  be  sure  of  it, 
I could  be  thankful  for  it : I could  be  content  to  leave  the 
grave  near  the  house  the  good  family  pass  in  and  out  of 
every  day,  undisturbed,  in  the  little  churchyard  where  so 
many  are  so  strangely  brought  together. 

Without  the  name  of  the  clergyman  to  whom — I hope, 
not  without  carrying  comfort  to  some  heart  at  some  time — 
I have  referred,  my  reference  would  be  as  nothing.  He 
is  the  Eeverend  Stephen  Eoose  Hughes,  of  Llanallgo,  near 
Moelfra,  Anglesey.  His  brother  is  the  Reverend  Hugh 
Robert  Hughes,  of  Penrhos,  Alligwy. 


III. 

WAPPING  WORKHOUSE. 

My  day^s  no-business  beckoning  me  to  the  East  end  of 
London,  I had  turned  my  face  to  that  point  of  the  metro- 
politan compass  on  leaving  Covent-garden,  and  had  got 
past  the  Indian  House,  thinking  in  my  idle  manner  of  Tip- 
poo- Sahib  and  Charles  Lamb,  and  had  got  past  my  little 
wooden  midshipman,  after  affectionately  patting  him  on 
one  leg  of  his  knee-shorts  for  old  acquaintance’  sake,  and 
had  got  past  Aldgate  Pump,  and  had  got  past  the  Saracen’s 
Head  (with  an  ignominious  rash  of  posting  bills  disfiguring 
his  swarthy  countenance),  and  had  strolled  up  the  empty 
yard  of  his  ancient  neighbour  the  Black  or  Blue  Boar,  or 
Bull,  who  departed  this  life  I don’t  know  when,  and  whose 
coaches  are  all  gone  I don’t  know  where;  and  I had  come 
out  again  into  the  age  of  railways,  and  I had  got  past 
Whitechapel  Church,  and  was — rather  inappropriately  for 
an  Uncommercial  Traveller  — in  the  Commercial  Road. 
Pleasantly  wallowing  in  the  abundant  mud  of  that  thor- 
oughfare, and  greatly  enjoying  the  huge  piles  of  building 
belonging  to  the  sugar  refiners,  the  little  masts  and  vanes 
in  small  back  gardens  in  back  streets,  the  neighbouring 
canals  and  docks,  the  India  vans  lumbering  along  their 
stone  tramway,  and  the  pawnbrokers’  shops  where  hard-up 


‘ STOOD  J 


CREATURE  REMOTELY  IN  THE  LIKENESS  OF  A YOUNG  MAN.” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


17 


RTates  had  pawned  so  many  sextants  and  quadrants,  that  I 
should  have  bought  a few  cheap  if  I had  the  least  notion 
low  to  use  them,  I at  last  began  to  file  off  to  the  right 
towards  Wapping. 

Not  that  I intended  to  take  boat  at  Wapping  Old  Stairs 
)r  that  I was  going  to  look  at  the  locality,  because  I be- 
leve  (for  I don’t)  in  the  constancy  of  the  young  woman 
vho  told  her  sea-going  lover,  to  such  a beautiful  old  tune, 
hat  she  had  ever  continued  the  same,  since  she  gave  him 
he  ’baccer-box  marked  with  his  name;  I am  afraid  he 
isvially  got  the  worst  of  those  transactions,  and  was  fright- 
ully  taken  in.  No,  I was  going  to  Wapping,  because  an 
’!.astern  police  magistrate  had  said,  through  the  morning 
■apers,  that  there  was  no  classification  at  the  Wapping 
mrkhouse  for  women,  and  that  it  was  a disgrace  and  a 
.hame,  and  divers  other  hard  names,  and  because  I wished 
P see  how  the  fact  really  stood.  For,  that  Eastern  police 
lagistates  are  not  always  the  wisest  men  of  the  East  may 
,e  inferred  from  their  course  of  procedure  respecting  the 
Imcy-dressing  and  pantomime-posturing  at  St.  George’s  in 
lat  quarter:  which  is  usually,  to  discuss  the  matter  at 
■sue,  in  a state  of  mind  betokening  the  weakest  perplex- 
y 5 with  all  parties  concerned  and  unconcerned,  and,  for  a 
nal  expedient,  to  consult  the  complainant  as  to  what  he 
links  ought  to  be  done  with  the  defendant,  and  take  the 
3tendant’s  opinion  as  to  what  he  would  recommend  to  be 
3ne  with  himself. 

Long  before  I reached  Wapping,  I gave  myself  up  as 
iving  lost  my  way,  and,  abandoning  myself  to  the  narrow 
reets  in  a Turkish  frame  of  mind,  relied  on  predestina- 
3n  to  bring  me  somehow  or  other  to  the  place  I wanted  if 
were  ever  to  get  there.  When  I had  ceased  for  an  hour 
so  to  take  any  trouble  about  the  matter,  I found  myself 
i a swing-bridge  looking  down  at  some  dark  locks  in  some 
rty  water.  Over  against  me,  stood  a creature  remotely 
the  likeness  of  a young  man,  with  a puffed  sallow  face, 

a figure  all  dirty  and  shiny  and  slimy,  who  may  have 
en  the  youngest  son  of  his  filthy  old  father,  Thames  or 
e drowned  man  about  whom  there  was  a placard  on  the 
anite  post  like  a large  thimble,  that  stood  between  us. 

1 asked  this  apparition  what  it  called  the  place?  Unto 
iich.  It  replied,  with  a ghastly  grin  and  a sound  like 
rgling  water  in  its  throat; 


18  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

“Mr.  Baker’s  trap.” 

As  it  is  a point  of  great  sensitiveness  with  me  on  such 
occasions  to  be  equal  to  the  intellectual  pressure  of  the  con- 
versation, T,  deeply  considered  the  meaning  of  this  speech, 
while  1 eyed  the  apparition — then  engaged  in  hugging  and 
sucking  a horizontal  iron  bar  at  the  top  of  the  locks.  In- 
spiration suggested  to  me  that  Mr.  Baker  was  the  acting 
coroner  of  that  neighbourhood. 

“ A common  place  for  suicide,”  said  I,  looking  down  at 
the  locks. 

“ Sue?  ” returned  the  ghost,  with  a stare.  “ Yes ! And 
Poll.  Likewise  Emily.  And  Nancy.  And  Jane;  ” he 
sucked  the  iron  between  each  name;  “and  all  the  bileing. 
Ketches  olf  their  bonnets  or  shorls,  takes  a run,  and  headers 
down  here,  they  doos.  Always  a headerin’  down  here, 
they  is.  Like  one  o’clock.” 

“ And  at  about  that  hour  of  the  morning,  I suppose?  ” 

“Ah!”  said  the  apparition.  “ TAey  an’t  partickler. 
Two  ’ull  do  for  them.  Three.  All  times  o’  night.  On’y 
mind  you ! ” Here  the  apparition  rested  his  profile  on  the! 
bar,  and  gurgled  in  a sarcastic  manner.  “ There  must  be 
somebody  cornin’.  They  don’t  go  a headerin’  down  here; 
wen  there  an’t  no  Bobby  nor  gen’ral  Cove,  fur  to  hear  the 
splash.” 

According  to  my  interpretation  of  these  words,  I was 
myself  a General  Cove,  or  member  of  the  miscellaneous 
public.  In  which  modest  character  I remarked : 

“ They  are  often  taken  out,  are  they,  and  restored?  ” 

“I  dunno  about  restored,”  said  the  apparition,  who,  for 
some  occult  reason,  very  much  objected  to  that  word: 
“they’re  carried  into  the  werkiss  and  put  into  a ’ot  bath' 
and  brought  round.  But  I dunno  about  restored,”  said  thej 
apparition;  “blow  that!” — and  vanished. 

As  it  had  shown  a desire  to  become  offensive,  I was  noi 
sorry  to  find  myself  alone,  especially  as  the  “ werkiss  ” ii 
had  indicated  with  a twist  of  its  matted  head,  was  close  ai 
hand.  So  I left  Mr.  Baker’s  terrible  trap  (baited  with  f 
scum  that  was  like  the  soapy  rinsing  of  sooty  chimneys) 
and  made  bold  to  ring  at  the  workhouse  gate,  where  I waf 
wholly  unexpected  and  quite  unknown. 

A very  bright  and  nimble  little  matron,  with  a bunch  o 
keys  in  her  hand,  responded  to  my  request  to  see  tin 
House  I began  to  doubt  whether  the  police  magistrati 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


19 


was  quite  right  in  his  facts,  when  I noticed  her  quick  active 
little  figure  and  her  intelligent  eyes. 

The  Traveller  (the  matron  intimated)  should  see  the 
worst  first.  He  was  welcome  to  see  everything.  Such  as 
it  was,  there  it  all  was. 

This  was  the  only  preparation  for  our  entering  ‘‘the 
Foul  wards.”  They  were  in  an  old  building  squeezed 
away  in  a corner  of  a paved  yard,  quite  detached  from  the 
more  modern  and  spacious  main  body  of  the  workhouse. 
They  were  in  a building  most  monstrously  behind  the  time 
—a  mere  series  of  garrets  or  lofts,  with  every  inconvenient 
and  objectionable  circumstance  in  their  construction,  and 
only  accessible  by  steep  and  narrow  staircases,  infamously 
ill-adapted  for  the  passage  up-stairs  of  the  sick  or  down- 
stairs of  the  dead. 

A-bed  in  these  miserable  rooms,  here  on  bedsteads,  there 
(for  a change,  as  I understood  it)  on  the  floor,  were  women 
in  every  stage  of  distress  and  disease.  None  but  those 
who  have  attentively  observed  such  scenes,  can  conceive 
the  extraordinary  variety  of  expression  still  latent  under 
the  general  monotony  and  uniformity  of  colour,  attitude, 
and  condition.  The  form  a little  coiled  up  and  turned 
away,  as  though  it  had  turned  its  back  on  this  world  for 
ever;  the  uninterested  face  at  once  lead-coloured  and  yel- 
low, looking  passively  upward  from  the  pillow;  the  hag- 
gard mouth  a little  dropped,  the  hand  outside  the  coveidet, 
so  dull  and  indifferent,  so  light,  and  yet  so  heavy;  these 
were  on  every  pallet;  but  when  I stopped  beside  a bed,  and 
said  ever  so  slight  a word  to  the  figure  lying  there,  the 
ghost  of  the  old  character  came  into  the  face,  and  made  the 
Foul  ward  as  various  as  the  fair  world.  No  one  appeared 
to  care  to  live,  but  no  one  complained;  all  who  could  speak, 
said  that  as  much  was  done  for  them  as  could  be  done 
there,  that  the  attendance  was  kind  and  patient,  that  their 
suffering  was  very  heavy,  but  they  had  nothing  to  ask  for. 
The  wretched  rooms  were  as  clean  and  sweet  as  it  is  pos- 
sible for  such  rooms  to  be;  they  would  become  a pest-house 
in  a single  week,  if  they  were  ill-kept. 

I accompanied  the  brisk  matron  up  another  barbarous 
staircase,  into  a better  kind  of  loft  devoted  to  the  idiotic 
and  imbecile.  There  was  at  least  Light  in  it,  whereas  the 
windows  in  the  former  wards  had  been  like  sides  of  school- 
boys’ bird-cages.  There  was  a strong  grating  over  the  fire 


20 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


here,  and,  holding  a kind  of  state  on  either  side  of  the 
hearth,  separated  by  the  breadth  of  this  grating,  were  two 
ladies  in  a condition  of  feeble  dignity,  which  was  surely  the 
very  last  and  lowest  reduction  of  self-complacency,  to  be 
found  in  this  wonderful  humanity  of  ours.  They  were 
evidently  jealous  of  each  other,  and  passed  their  whole 
time  (as  some  people  do,  whose  fires  are  not  grated)  in 
mentally  disparaging  each  other,  and  contemptuously 
watching  their  neighbours.  One  of  these  parodies  on  pro- 
vincial gentlewomen  was  extremely  talkative,  and  ex- 
pressed a strong  desire  to  attend  the  service  on  Sundays, 
from  which  she  represented  herself  to  have  derived  the 
greatest  interest  and  consolation  when  allowed  that  priv- 
ilege. She  gossiped  so  well,  and  looked  altogether  so 
cheery  and  harmless,  that  I began  to  think  this  a case  for 
the  Eastern  magistrate,  until  I found  that  on  the  last  oc- 
casion of  her  attending  chapel  she  had  secreted  a small 
stick,  and  had  caused  some  confusion  in  the  responses  by 
suddenly  producing  it  and  belabouring  the  congregation . 

So,  these  two  old  ladies,  separated  by  the  breadth  of  the 
grating — otherwise  they  would  fly  at  one  another’s  caps  — 
sat  all  day  long,  suspecting  one  another,  and  contemplating 
a world  of  fits.  For,  everybody  else  in  the  room  had  fits, 
except  the  wards- woman;  an  elderly,  able-bodied  pau- 
peress,  with  a large  upper  lip,  and  an  air  of  repressing  and 
saving  her  strength,  as  she  stood  with  her  hands  folded  be- 
fore her,  and  her  eyes  slowly  rolling,  biding  her  time  for 
catching  or  holding  somebody.  This  civil  personage  (in 
whom  I regretted  to  identify  a reduced  member  of  my 
honourable  friend  Mrs.  Gamp’s  family)  said,  They  has 
’em  continiwal,  sir.  They  drops  without  no  more  notice 
than  if  they  was  coach-horses  dropped  from  the  moon,  sir. 
And  when  one  drops,  another  drops,  and  sometimes  there’ll 
be  as  many  as  four  or  five  on  ’em  at  once,  dear  me,  a roll- 
ing and  a tearin’,  bless  you! — this  young  woman,  now,  has 
’em  dreadful  bad.” 

She  turned  up  this  young  woman’s  face  with  her  hand 
as  she  said  it.  This  young  woman  was  seated  on  the  floor, 
pondering  in  the  foreground  of  the  afflicted.  There  was 
nothing  repellent  either  in  her  face  or  head.  Many,  ap- 
parently worse,  varieties  of  epilepsy  and  hysteria  were 
about  her,  but  she  was  said  to  be  the  worst  here.  When  T 
had  spoken  to  her  a little,  she  still  sat  with  her  face  turned 


THE  UNCOxMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  21 

up,  pondering,  and  a gleam  of  the  mid-day  sun  shone  in 
upon  her. 

— Whether  this  young  woman,  and  the  rest  of  these  so 
sorely  troubled,  as  they  sit  or  lie  pondering  in  their  con- 
fused dull  way,  ever  get  mental  glimpses  among  the  motes 
in  the  sunlight,  of  healthy  people  and  healthy  things? 
Whether  this  young  woman,  brooding  like  this  in  the  sum- 
mer season,  ever  thinks  that  somewhere  there  are  trees  and 
flowers,  even  mountains  and  the  great  sea?  Whether,  not 
to  go  so  far,  this  young  woman  ever  has  any  dim  revelation 
of  that  young  woman — that  young  woman  who  is  not  here 
and  never  will  come  here;  who  is  courted,  and  caressed, 
and  loved,  and  has  a husband,  and  bears  children,  and  lives 
ill  a Lome,  and  who  never  knows  what  it  is  to  have  this 
lashing  and  tearing  coming  upon  her  ? And  whether  this 
young  woman,  God  help  her,  gives  herself  up  then  and 
drops  like  a coach-horse  from  the  moon? 

I hardly  knew  whether  the  voices  of  infant  children, 
penetrating  into  so  hopeless  a place,  made  a sound  that  was 
pleasant  or  painful  to  me.  It  was  something  to  be  re- 
minded that  the  weary  world  was  not  all  aweary,  and  was 
ever  renewing  itself;  but,  this  young  woman  was  a child 
not  long  ago,  and  a child  not  long  hence  might  be  such  as 
she.  Howbeit,  the  active  step  and  eye  of  the  vigilant 
matron  conducted  me  past  the  two  provincial  gentlewomen 
(whose  dignity  was  ruffled  by  the  children),  and  into  the 
adjacent  nursery. 

There  were  many  babies  here,  and  more  than  one  hand- 
some young  mother.  There  were  ugly  young  mothers  also, 
and  sullen  young  mothers,  and  callous  young  mothers. 
But,  the  babies  had  not  appropriated  to  themselves  any  bad 
expression  yet,  and  might  have  been,  for  anything  that  ap- 
peared to  the  contrary  in  their  soft  faces.  Princes  Imperial, 
and  Princesses  Royal.  I had  the  pleasure  of  giving  a 
poetical  commission  to  the  baker’s  man  to  make  a cake 
with  all  despatch  and  toss  it  -into  the  oven  for  one  red- 
headed young  pauper  and  myself,  and  felt  much  the  better 
for  it.  Without  that  refreshment,  I doubt  if  I should 
have  been  in  a condition  for  ^^the  Refractories,”  towards 
whom  my  quick  little  matron — for  whose  adaptation  to  lier 
office  I had  by  this  time  conceived  a genuine  respect — drew 
me  next,  and  marshalled  me  the  way  that  1 was  going. 

The  Refractories  were  picking  oakum,  in  a small  room 


22 


THE  UNCOMJVIERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


giving  on  a yard.  They  sat  in  line  on  a form,  with  their 
backs  to  a window;  before  them,  a table,  and  their  work. 
The  oldest  Refractory  was,  say  twenty;  youngest  Refrac- 
tory, say  sixteen.  I have  never  yet  ascertained  in  the  course 
of  my  uncommercial  travels,  why  a Refractory  habit  should 
affect  the  tonsils  and  uvula;  but,  I have  always  observed 
that  Refractories  of  both  sexes  and  every  grade,  between 
a Ragged  School  and  the  Old  Bailey,  have  one  voice,  in 
which  the  tonsils  and  uvula  gain  a diseased  ascendency. 

‘^Five  pound  indeed!  I hain’t  a going  fur  to  pick  five 
pound,’’  said  the  Chief  of  the  Refractories,  keeping  time  to 
herself  with  her  head  and  chin.  “ More  than  enough  to 
pick  what  we  picks  now,  in  sich  a place  as  this,  and  on  wot 
we  gets  here ! ” 

(This  was  in  acknowledgment  of  a delicate  intimation 
that  the  amount  of  work  was  likely  to  be  increased.  It 
certainly  was  not  heavy  then,  for  one  Refractory  had  al- 
ready done  her  day’s  task — it  was  barely  two  o’clock — and 
was  sitting  behind  it,  with  a head  exactly  matching  it. ) 

A pretty  Ouse  this  is,  matron,  ain’t  it?  ” said  Refrac- 
tory Two,  where  a pleeseman’s  called  in,  if  a gal  says  a 
word ! ” 

And  wen  you’re  sent  to  prison  for  nothink  or  less!” 
said  the  Chief,  tugging  at  her  oakum  as  if  it  were  the  ma- 
tron’s hair.  ^^But  any  place  is  better  than  this  ; that’s  one 
thing,  and  be  thankful ! ” 

A laugh  of  Refractories  led  by  Oakum  Head  with  folded 
arms — who  originated  nothing,  but  who  was  in  command 
of  the  skirmishers  outside  the  conversation. 

^Hf  any  place  is  better  than  this,”  said  my  brisk  guide, 
in  the  calmest  manner,  it  is  a pity  you  left  a good  place 
when  you  had  one.” 

‘^Ho,  no,  I didn’t,  matron,”  returned  the  Chief,  with 
another  pull  at  her  oakum,  and  a very  expressive  look  at 
the  enemy’s  forehead.  Don’t  say  that,  matron,  cos  it’s 
lies!” 

Oakum  Head  brought  up  the  skirmishers  again,  skir- 
mished, and  retired. 

^^And  I warn’t  a going,”  exclaimed  Refractory  Two, 
“ though  I was  in  one  place  for  as  long  as  four  year — 1 
warn’t  a going  fur  to  stop  in  a place  that  warn’t  fit  for  me 
—there!  And  where  the  family  warn’t  ’spectable  char- 
acters— there ! And  where  I fort’nately  or  hunfort’nately, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  23 

found  that  the  people  warn’t  what  they  pretended  to  make 
theirselves  out  to  be — there!  And  where  it  wasn’t  their 
faults,  by  chalks,  if  I warn’t  made  bad  and  ruinated— 
Hah!” 

During  this  speech.  Oakum  Head  had  again  made  a di- 
version with  the  skirmishers,  and  had  again  withdrawn. 

The  Uncommercial  Traveller  ventured  to  remark  that  he 
supposed  Chief  Refractory  and  Number  One,  to  be  the  two 
young  women  who  had  been  taken  before  the  magistrate? 

Yes ! ” said  the  Chief,  we  har ! and  the  wonder  is, 
that  a pleeseman  an’t  ’ad  in  now,  and  we  took  off  agen. 
You  can’t  open  your  lips  here,  without  a pleeseman.” 

Number  Two  laughed  (very  uvularly),  and  the  skirmish- 
ers followed  suit. 

^^I’m  sure  I’d  be  thankful,”  protested  the  Chief,  looking 
sideways  at  the  Uncommercial,  ^Uf  I could  be  got  into  a 
place,  or  got  abroad.  I’m  sick  and  tired  of  this  precious 
Ouse,  I am,  with  reason.” 

So  would  be,  and  so  was.  Number  Two.  So  would  be, 
and  so  was.  Oakum  Head.  So  would  be,  and  so  were. 
Skirmishers. 

The  Uncommercial  took  the  liberty  of  hinting  that  he 
hardly  thought  it  probable  that  any  lady  or  gentleman  in 
want  of  a likely  young  domestic  of  retiring  manners,  would 
be  tempted  into  the  engagement  of  either  of  the  two  lead- 
ing Refractories,  on  her  own  presentation  of  herself  as  per 
sample. 

'^It  ain’t  no  good  being  nothink  else  here,”  said  the 
Chief. 

The  Uncommercial  thought  it  might  be  worth  trying. 

‘‘Oh  no  it  ain’t,”  said  the  Chief. 

“Not  a bit  of  good,”  said  Number  Two. 

“And  I’m  sure  I’d  be  very  thankful  to  be  got  into  a 
place,  or  got  abroad,”  said  the  Chief. 

“And  so  should  I,”  said  Number  Two.  “Truly  thank- 
ful, I should.” 

Oakum  Head  then  rose,  and  announced  as  an  entirely 
new  idea,  the  mention  of  which  profound  novelty  might  be 
naturally  expected  to  startle  her  unprepared  hearers,  that 
she  would  be  very  thankful  to  be  got  into  a place,  or  got 
abroad.  And,  as  if  she  had  then  said,  “ Chorus,  ladies ! ” 
all  the  skirmishers  struck  up  to  the  same  purpose.  We 
left  them,  thereupon,  and  began  a long  walk  among  the 


24 


TPIE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


women  who  were  simply  old  and  infirm;  but  whenever,  in 
the  course  of  this  same  walk,  I looked  out  of  any  high  win- 
dow that  commanded  the  yard,  I saw  Oakum  Head  and  all 
the  other  Refractories  looking  out  at  their  low  window  for 
me,  and  never  failing  to  catch  me,  the  moment  I showed 
my  head. 

In  ten  minutes  I had  ceased  to  believe  in  such  fables  of 
a golden  time  as  youth,  the  prime  of  life,  or  a hale  old  age. 
In  ten  minutes,  all  the  lights  of  womankind  seemed  to  have 
been  blown  out,  and  nothing  in  that  way  to  be  left  this 
vault  to  brag  of,  but  the  flickering  and  expiring  snuffs. 

And  what  was  very  curious,  was,  that  these  dim  old 
women  had  one  company  notion  which  was  the  fashion  of 
the  place.  Every  old  woman  who  became  aware  of  a vis- 
itor and  was  not  in  bed  hobbled  over  a form  into  her  accus- 
tomed seat,  and  became  one  of  a line  of  dim  old  women 
confronting  another  line  of  dim  old  women  across  a narrow 
table.  There  was  no  obligation  whatever  upon  them  to 
range  themselves  in  this  way;  it  was  their  manner  of  ‘‘re- 
ceiving.’’ As  a rule,  they  made  no  attempt  to  talk  to  one 
another,  or  to  look  at  the  visitor,  or  to  look  at  anything, 
but  sat  silently  working  their  mouths,  like  a sort  of  poor 
old  Cows.  In  some  of  these  wards,  it  was  good  to  see  a 
few  green  plants;  in  others,  an  isolated  Refractory  acting 
as  nurse,  who  did  well  enough  in  that  capacity,  when  sepa- 
rated from  her  compeers;  every  one  of  these  wards,  day 
room,  night  room,  or  both  combined,  was  scrupulously 
clean  and  fresh.  I have  seen  as  many  such  places  as  most 
travellers  in  my  line,  and  I never  saw  one  such,  better  kept. 

Among  the  bedridden  there  was  great  patience,  great  re- 
liance on  the  books  under  the  pillow,  great  faith  in  God. 
All  cared  for  sympathy,  but  none  much  cared  to  be  encour- 
aged with  hope  of  recovery;  on  the  whole,  I should  say,  it 
was  considered  rather  a distinction  to  have  a complication 
of  disorders,  and  to  be  in  a worse  way  than  the  rest.  From 
some  of  the  windows,  the  river  could  be  seen  with  all  its 
life  and  movement;  the  day  was  bright,  but  I came  upon 
no  one  who  was  looking  out. 

In  one  large  ward,  sitting  by  the  fire  in  arm-chairs  of 
distinction,  like  the  President  and  Vice  of  the  good  com- 
pany, were  two  old  women,  upwards  of  ninety  years  of  age. 
The  younger  of  the  two,  just  turned  ninety,  was  deaf,  but 
not  very,  and  could  easily  be  made  to  hear.  In  her  early 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


25 


time  she  had  nursed  a child,  who  was  now  another  old 
woman,  more  infirm  than  herself,  inhabiting  the  very  same 
chamber.  She  perfectly  understood  this  when  the  matron 
told  it,  and,  with  sundry  nods  and  motions  of  her  forefin- 
ger, pointed  out  the  woman  in  question.  The  elder  of  this 
pair,  ninety-three,  seated  before  an  illustrated  newspaper 
(but  not  reading  it),  was  a bright-eyed  old  soul,  really  not 
deaf,  wonderfully  preserved,  and  amazingly  conversational. 
She  had  not  long  lost  her  husband,  and  had  been  in  that 
place  little  more  than  a year.'  At  Boston,  in  the  State  of 
Massachusetts,  this  poor  creature  would  have  been  individ- 
ually addressed,  would  have  been  tended  in  her  own  room, 
and  would  have  had  her  life  gently  assimilated  to  a com- 
fortable life  out  of  doors.  Would  that  be  much  to  do  in 
England  for  a woman  who  has  kept  herself  out  of  a work- 
house  more  than  ninety  rough  long  years?  When  Britain 
first,  at  Heaven’s  command,  arose,  with  a great  deal  of  al- 
legorical confusion,  from  out  the  azure  main,  did  her  guar- 
dian angels  positively  forbid  it  in  the  Charter  which  has 
been  so  much  besung? 

The  object  of  my  journey  was  accomplished  when  the 
nimble  matron  had  no  more  to  show  me.  As  I shook  hands 
with  her  at  the  gate,  I told  her  that  I thought  Justice  had 
not  used  her  very  well,  and  that  the  wise  men  of  the  East 
were  not  infallible. 

Now,  I reasoned  with  myself,  as  I made  my  journey 
home  again,  concerning  those  Foul  wards.  They  ought  not 
to  exist;  no  person  of  common  decency  and  humanity  can 
see  them  and  doubt  it.  But  what  is  this  Union  to  do? 
The  necessary  alteration  would  cost  several  thousands  of 
pounds;  it  has  already  to  support  three  workhouses;  its 
inhabitants  work  hard  for  their  bare  lives,  and  are  already 
rated  for  the  relief  of  the  Poor  to  the  utmost  extent  of 
reasonable  endurance.  One  poor  parish  in  this  very  Union 
is  rated  to  the  amount  of  Five  and  sixpence  in  the  pound, 
at  the  very  same  time  when  the  rich  parish  of  Saint 
George’s,  Hanover-square,  is  rated  at  about  Sevenpence 
in  the  pound,  Paddington  at  about  Fourpence,  Saint 
James’s,  Westminster,  at  about  Tenpence!  It  is  only 
through  the  equalisation  of  Poor  Rates  that  what  is  left  un- 
done in  this  wise,  can  be  done.  Much  more  is  left  undone, 
or  is  ill-done,  than  I have  space  to  suggest  in  these  notes  of 
a single  uncommercial  journey;  but,  the  wise  men  of  the 


26 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


East,  before  they  can  reasonably  hold  forth  about  it,  must 
look  to  the  North  and  South  and  West;  let  them  also,  any 
morning  before  takiug  the  seat  of  Solomon,  look  into  the 
shops  and  dwellings  all  around  the  Temple,  and  first  ask 
themselves  ^^how  much  more  can  these  poor  people — many 
of  whom  keep  themselves  with  difficulty  enough  out  of  the 
workhouse— bear? 

I had  yet  other  matter  for  reflection  as  I journeyed  home, 
inasmuch  as,  before  I altogether  departed  from  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Mr.  Baker’s  trap,  I had  knocked  at  the  gates 
of  the  workhouse  of  St.  George’ s-in-the-East,  and  had 
found  it  to  be  an  establishment  highly  creditable  to  those 
parts,  and  thoroughly  well  administered  by  a most  intelli- 
gent master.  I remarked  in  it,  an  instance  of  the  collat- 
eral harm  that  obstinate  vanity  and  folly  can  do.  This 
was  the  Hall  where  those  old  paupers,  male  and  female, 
whom  I had  just  seen,  met  for  the  Church  service,  was  it  ? ” 
— Yes.” — Did  they  sing  the  Psalms  to  any  instrument  ? ” 
— ^^They  would  like  to,  very  much;  they  would  have  an 
extraordinary  interest  in  doing  so.” — And  could  none  be 
got?” — Well,  a piano  could  even  have  been  got  for 
nothing,  but  these  unfortunate  dissensions ” Ah ! bet- 

ter, far  better,  my  Christian  friend  in  the  beautiful  gar- 
ment, to  have  let  the  singing  boys  alone,  and  left  the  mul- 
titude to  sing  for  themselves!  You  should  know  better 
than  I,  but  I think  I have  read  that  they  did  so,  once  upon 
a time,  and  that  ^^when  they  had  sung  an  hymn,”  Some 
one  (not  in  a beautiful  garment)  went  up  unto  the  Mount 
of  Olives. 

It  made  my  heart  ache  to  think  of  this  miserable  trifling, 
in  the  streets  of  a city  \^iere  every  stone  seemed  to  call  to 
me,  as  I walked  along,  Turn  this  way,  man,  and  see  what 
waits  to  be  done ! ” So  I decoyed  myself  into  another  train 
of  thought  to  ease  my  heart.  But,  I don’t  know  that  I did 
it,  for  I was  so  full  of  paupers,  that  it  was,  after  all,  only 
a change  to  a single  pauper,  who  took  possession  of  my  re- 
membrance instead  of  a thousand. 

beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  he  had  said,  in  a confidential 
manner,  on  another  occasion,  taking  me  aside;  ^‘but  I have 
seen  better  days.” 

am  very  sorry  to  hear  it.” 

Sir,  I have  a complaint  to  make  against  the  master.” 

I have  no  power  here,  I assure  you.  And  if  I had ” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


27 


^^But  allow  me,  sir,  to  mention  it,  as  between  yourself 
and  a man  who  has  seen  better  days,  sir.  The  master  and 
myself  are  both  masons,  sir,  and  I make  him  the  sign  con- 
tinually; but,  because  I am  in  this  unfortunate  position, 
sir,  he  won’t  give  me  the  countersign ! ” 


IV. 

TWO  VIEWS  OF  A CHEAP  THEATRE. 

As  I shut  the  door  of  my  lodging  behind  me,  and  came 
out  into  the  streets  at  six  on  a drizzling  Saturday  evening 
in  the  last  past  month  of  January,  all  that  neighbourhood 
of  Co  vent-garden  looked  very  desolate.  It  is  so  essentially  a 
neighbourhood  which  has  seen  better  days,  that  bad  weather 
affects  it  sooner  than  another  place  which  has  not  come 
down  in  the  world.  In  its  present  reduced  condition  it 
bears  a thaw  almost  worse  than  any  place  I know.  It  gets 
so  dreadfully  low-spirited  when  damp  breaks  forth.  Those 
wonderful  houses  about  Drury-lane  Theatre,  which  in  the 
palmy  days  of  theatres  were  prosperous  and  long-settled 
places  of  business,  and  which  now  change  hands  every 
week,  but  never  change  their  character  of  being  divided 
and  sub-divided  on  the  ground  floor  into  mouldy  dens  of 
shops  where  an  orange  and  half-a-dozen  nuts,  or  a poma- 
tum-pot, one  cake  of  fancy  soap,  and  a cigar  box,  are 
offered  for  sale  and  never  sold,  were  most  ruefully  contem- 
plated that  evening,  by  the  statue  of  Shakespeare,  with  the 
rain-drops  coursing  one  another  down  its  innocent  nose. 
Those  inscrutable  pigeon-hole  offices,  with  nothing  in  them 
(not  so  much  as  an  inkstand)  but  a model  of  a theatre  be- 
fore the  curtain,  where,  in  the  Italian  Opera  season,  tickets 
at  reduced  prices  are  kept  on  sale  by  nomadic  gentlemen 
in  smeary  hats  too  tall  for  them,  whom  one  occasionally 
seems  to  have  seen  on  race-courses,  not  wholly  unconnected 
with  strips  of  cloth  of  various  colours  and  a rolling  ball — 
those  Bedouin  establishments,  deserted  by  the  tribe,  and 
tenantless,  except  when  sheltering  in  one  corner  an  irregu- 
lar row  of  ginger-beer-bottles,  which  would  have  made  one 
shudder  on  such  a night,  but  for  its  being  plain  that  they 
had  nothing  in  them,  shrunk  from  the  shrill  cries  of  the 


28 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


newsboys  at  their  Exchange  in  the  kennel  of  Catherine- 
street,  like  guilty  things  upon  a fearful  summons.  At  the 
pipe-shop  in  Great  Russell-street,  the  Death’s-head  pipes 
were  like  theatrical  memento  mori,  admonishing  beholders 
of  the  decline  of  the  playhouse  as  an  Institution.  I walked 
up  Bow-street,  disposed  to  be  angry  with  the  shops  there, 
that  were  letting  out  theatrical  secrets  by  exhibiting  to 
work-a-day  humanity  the  stuff  of  which  diadems  and  robes 
of  kings  are  made.  I noticed  that  some  shops  which  had 
once  been  in  the  dramatic  line,  and  had  struggled  out  of  it, 
were  not  getting  on  prosperously — like  some  actors  I have 
known,  who  took  to  business  and  failed  to  make  it  answer. 
In  a word,  those  streets  looked  so  dull,  and,  considered  as 
theatrical  streets,  so  broken  and  bankrupt,  that  the  Found 
Dead  on  the  black  board  at  the  police  station  might  have 
announced  the  decease  of  the  Drama,  and  the  pools  of  wa- 
ter outside  the  fire-engine  makers  at  the  corner  of  Long-acre 
might  have  been  occasioned  by  his  having  brought  out  the 
whole  of  his  stock  to  play  upon  its  last  smouldering  ashes 

And  yet,  on  such  a night  in  so  degenerate  a time,  the 
object  of  my  journey  was  theatrical.  And  yet  within  half 
an  hour  I was  in  an  immense  theatre,  capable  of  holding 
nearly  five  thousand  people. 

What  Theatre?  Her  Majesty’s?  Far  better.  Royal 
Italian  Opera?  Far  better.  Infinitely  superior  to  the  lat- 
ter for  hearing  in;  infinitely  superior  to  both,  for  seeing  in. 
To  every  part  of  this  Theatre,  spacious  fire-proof  ways  of 
ingress  and  egress.  For  every  part  of  it,  convenient  places 
of  refreshment  and  retiring  rooms.  Everything  to  eat  and 
drink  carefully  supervised  as  to  quality,  and  sold  at  an 
appointed  price;  respectable  female  attendants  ready  for 
the  commonest  women  in  the  audience;  a general  air  of 
consideration,  decorum,  and  supervision,  most  commend- 
able; an  unquestionably  humanising  influence  in  all  the  so- 
cial arrangements  of  the  place. 

Surely  a dear  Theatre,  then?  Because  there  were  in 
London  (not  very  long  ago)  Theatres  with  entrance-prices 
up  to  half-a-guinea  a head,  whose  arrangements  were  not 
half  so  civilised.  Surely,  therefore,  a dear  Theatre?  Not 
very  dear.  A gallery  at  threepence,  another  gallery  at 
fourpence,  a pit  at  sixpence,  boxes  and  pit-stalls  at  a shill- 
ing, and  a few  private- boxes  at  half-a-crown. 

My  uncommercial  curiosity  induced  me  to  go  into  every 


THE  uncommercial  Til. WELLER.  2i) 

nook  of  tins  great  place,  and  among  every  class  of  tlie  audi- 
ence assembled  in  it — amounting  that  evening,  as  I cal- 
culated, to  about  two  thousand  and  odd  hundreds.  Mag- 
nificently lighted  by  a finnament  of  sparkling  chandeliers, 
the  building  was  ventilated  to  perfection.  My  sense  of 
smell,  without  being  particularly  delicate,  has  been  so 
offended  in  some  of  the  commoner  places  of  public  resort, 
that  I have  often  been  obliged  to  leave  them  when  I have 
made  an  uncommercial  journey  expressly  to  look  on.  The 
air  of  this  Theatre  was  fresh,  cool,  and  wholesome.  To 
help  towards  this  end,  very  sensible  precautions  had  been 
used,  ingeniously  combining  the  experience  of  hospitals 
and  railway  stations.  Asphalt  pavements  substituted  for 
wooden  floors,  honest  bare  walls  of  glazed  brick  and  tile — 
even  at  the  back  of  the  boxes — for  plaster  and  paper,  no 
benches  stuffed,  and  no  carpeting  or  baize  used;  a cool  ma- 
terial with  a light  glazed  surface,  being  the  covering  of  the 
seats. 

These  various  contrivances  are  as  well  considered  in  the 
place  in  question  as  if  it  were  a Fever  Hospital;  the  result 
is,  that  it  is  sweet  and  healthful.  It  has  been  constructed 
from  the  ground  to  the  roof,  with  a careful  reference  to 
sight  and  sound  in  every  corner;  the  result  is,  that  its  form 
is  beautiful,  and  that  the  appearance  of  the  audience,  as 
seen  from  the  proscenium — with  every  face  in  it  command- 
ing the  stage,  and  the  whole  so  admirably  raked  and  turned 
to  that  centre,  that  a hand  can  scarcely  move  in  the  great 
assemblage  without  the  movement  being  seen  from  thence 
— is  highly  remarkable  in  its  union  of  vastiiess  with  com- 
pactness. The  stage  itself,  and  all  its  appurtenances  of 
machinery,  cellarage  height  and  breadth,  are  on  a scale 
more  like  the  Scala  at  Milan,  or  the  San  Carlo  at  Naples, 
or  the  Grand  Opera  at  Paris,  than  any  notion  a stranger 
would  be  likely  to  form  of  the  Britannia  Theatre  at  Hox- 
ton,  a mile  north  of  St.  Luke’s  Hospital  in  the  Old-street- 
road,  London.  The  Forty  Thieves  might  be  played  here, 
and  every  thief  ride  his  real  horse,  and  the  disguised  cap- 
tain bring  in  his  oil  jars  on  a train  of  real  camels,  and  no- 
body be  put  out  of  the  way.  This  really  extraordinary 
place  is  the  achievement  of  one  man’s  enterprise,  and  was 
erected  on  the  ruins  of  an  inconvenient  old  building  in  less 
than  five  months,  at  a round  cost  of  five-and-twenty  thou- 
sand pounds.  To  dismiss  this  part  of  my  subject,  and 


30 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


still  to  render  to  the  proprietor  the  credit  that  is  strictly  his 
due,  I must  add  that  his  sense  of  the  responsibility  upon 
him  to  make  the  best  of  his  audience,  and  to  do  his  best 
for  them,  is  a highly  agreeable  sign  of  these  times. 

As  the  spectators  at  this  theatre,  for  a reason  I will  pres- 
ently show,  were  the  object  of  my  journey,  I entered  on 
the  play  of  the  night  as  one  of  the  two  thousand  and  odd 
hundreds,  by  looking  about  me  at  my  neighbours.  We 
were  a motley  assemblage  of  people,  and  we  had  a good 
many  boys  and  young  men  among  us;  we  had  also  many 
girls  and  young  women.  To  represent,  however,  that  we 
did  not  include  a very  great  number,  and  a very  fair  pro- 
portion of  family  groups,  would  be  to  make  a gross  misstate- 
ment. Such  groups  were  to  be  seen  in  all  parts  of  the 
house;  in  the  boxes  and  stalls  particularly,  they  were  com- 
posed of  persons  of  very  decent  appearance,  who  had  many 
children  with  them.  Among  our  dresses  there  were  most 
kinds  of  shabby  and  greasy  wear,  and  much  fustian  and 
corduroy  that  was  neither  sound  nor  fragrant.  The  caps  of 
our  young  men  were  mostly  of  a limp  character,  and  we 
who  wore  them,  slouched,  high-shouldered,  into  our  places 
with  our  hands  in  our  pockets,  and  occasionally  twisted  our 
cravats  about  our  necks  like  eels,  and  occasionally  tied 
them  down  our  breasts  like  links  of  sausages,  and  occasion- 
ally had  a screw  in  our  hair  over  each  cheek-bone  with  a 
slight  Thief-flavour  in  it.  Besides  prowlers  and  idlers, 
we  were  mechanics,  dock-labourers,  costermongers,  petty 
tradesmen,  small  clerks,  milliners,  stay-makers,  shoe-bind- 
ers, slop  workers,  poor  workers  in  a hundred  highways  and 
byways.  Many  of  us— on  the  whole,  the  majority — were 
not  at  all  clean,  and  not  at  all  choice  in  our  lives  or  con- 
versation. But  we  had  all  come  together  in  a place  where 
our  convenience  was  well  consulted,  and  where  we  were 
well  looked  after,  to  enjoy  an  evening’s  entertainment  in 
common.  We  were  not  going  to  lose  any  part  of  what  we 
had  paid  for  through  anybody’s  caprice,  and  as  a commu- 
nity we  had  a character  to  lose.  So,  we  were  closely  atten- 
tive, and  kept  excellent  order;  and  let  the  man  or  boy  who 
did  otherwise  instantly  get  out  from  this  place,  or  we  would 
put  him  out  with  the  greatest  expedition. 

We  began  at  half-past  six  with  a pantomime — with  a 
pantomime  so  long,  that  before  it  was  over  I felt  as  if  I 
had  been  travelling  for  six  weeks — going  to  India,  say,  by 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


31 


the  Overland  Mail.  The  Spirit  of  Liberty  was  the  prin- 
cipal personage  in  the  Introduction,  and  the  Four  Quarters 
of  the  World  came  out  of  the  globe,  glittering,  and  dis- 
coursed with  the  Spirit,  who  sang  charmingly.  We  were 
delighted  to  understand  that  there  was  no  liberty  any- 
where but  among  ourselves,  and  we  highly  applauded  the 
agreeable  fact.  In  an  allegorical  way,  which  did  as  well 
as  any  other  way,  we  and  the  Spirit  of  Liberty  got  into  a 
kingdom  of  Needles  and  Pins,  and  found  them  at  war  with 
a potentate  who  called  in  to  his  aid  their  old  arch  enemy 
Rust,  and  who  would  have  got  the  better  of  them  if  the 
Spirit  of  Liberty  had  not  in  the  nick  of  time  transformed 
the  leaders  into  Clown,  Pantaloon,  Harlequin,  Columbine, 
Harlequina,  and  a whole  family  of  Sprites,  consisting  of  a 
remarkably  stout  father  and  three  spineless  sons.  We  all 
knew  what  was  coming  when  the  Spirit  of  Liberty  ad- 
dressed the  king  with  a big  face,  and  His  Majesty  backed 
to  the  side-scenes  and  began  untying  himself  behind,  with 
his  big  face  all  on  one  side.  Our  excitement  at  that  crisis 
was  great,  and  our  delight  unbounded.  After  this  era  in 
our  existence,  we  went  through  all  the  incidents  of  a pan- 
tomime; it  was  not  by  any  means  a savage  pantomime,  in 
the  way  of  burning  or  boiling  people,  or  throwing  them 
out  of  window,  or  cutting  them  up;  was  often  very  droll; 
was  always  liberally  got  up,  and  cleverly  presented.  I no- 
ticed that  the  people  who  kept  the  shops,  and  who  repre- 
sented the  passengers  in  the  thoroughfares,  and  so  forth, 
had  no  conventionality  in  them,  but  were  unusually  like 
the  real  thing — from  which  I infer  that  you  may  take  that 
audience  in  (if  you  wish  to)  concerning  Knights  and  Ladies, 
Fairies,  Angels,  or  such  like,  but  they  are  not  to  be  done  as 
to  anything  in  the  streets.  I noticed,  also,  that  when  two 
young  men,  dressed  in  exact  imitation  of  the  eel-and-sau- 
sage-cravated  portion  of  the  audience,  were  chased  by  po- 
licemen, and,  finding  themselves  in  danger  of  being  caught, 
dropped  so  suddenly  as  to  oblige  the  policemen  to  tumble 
over  them,  there  was  great  rejoicing  among  the  caps — as 
though  it  were  a delicate  reference  to  something  they  had 
heard  of  before. 

The  Pantomime  was  succeeded  by  a Melo-Drama. 
Th  foughout  the  evening  I was  pleased  to  observe  Virtue 
quite  as  triumphant  as  she  usually  is  out  of  doors,  and  in- 
deed I thought  rather  more  so.  We  all  agreed  (for  the 


82 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


time)  that  honesty  was  the  best  policy,  and  we  were  as 
hard  as  iron  upon  Vice,  and  we  wouldn’t  hear  of  Villainy 
getting  on  in  the  world — no,  not  on  any  consideration  what- 
ever. 

Between  the  pieces,  we  almost  all  of  us  went  out  and 
refreshed.  Many  of  us  went  the  length  of  drinking  beer 
at  the  bar  of  the  neighbouring  public-house,  some  of  us 
drank  spirits,  crowds  of  us  had  sandwiches  and  ginger-beer 
at  the  refreshment-bars  established  for  us  in  the  Theatre. 
The  sandwich — as  substantial  as  was  consistent  with  porta- 
bility, and  as  cheap  as  possible — we  hailed  as  one  of  our 
greatest  institutions.  It  forced  its  way  among  us  at  all 
stages  of  the  entertainment,  and  we  were  always  delighted 
to  see  it;  its  adaptability  to  the  varying  moods  of  our  na- 
ture was  surprising;  we  could  never  weep  so  comfortably 
as  when  our  tears  fell  on  our  sandwich;  we  could  never 
laugh  so  heartily  as  when  we  choked  with  sandwich;  Vir- 
tue never  looked  so  beautiful  or  Vice  so  deformed  as  when 
we  paused,  sandwich  in  hand,  to  consider  what  would  come 
of  that  resolution  of  Wickedness  in  boots,  to  sever  Inno- 
cence in  flowered  chintz  from  Honest  Industry  in  striped 
stockings.  When  the  curtain  fell  for  the  night,  we  still 
fell  back  upon  sandwich,  to  help  us  through  the  rain  and 
mire,  and  home  to  bed. 

This,  as  I have  mentioned,  was  Saturday  night.  Being 
Saturday  night,  I had  accomplished  but  the  half  of  my 
uncommercial  journey;  for,  its  object  was  to  compare  the 
play  on  Saturday  evening  with  the  preaching  in  the  same 
Theatre  on  Sunday  evening. 

Therefore,  at  the  same  hour  of  half-past  six  on  the  sim- 
ilarly damp  and  muddy  Sunday  evening,  I returned  to  this 
Theatre.  I drove  up  to  the  entrance  (fearful  of  being  late, 
or  I should  have  come  on  foot),  and  found  myself  in  a large 
crowd  of  people  who,  I am  happy  to  state,  were  put  into 
excellent  spirits  by  my  arrival.  Having  nothing  to  look  at 
but  the  mud  and  the  closed  doors,  they  looked  at  me,  and 
highly  enjoyed  the  comic  spectacle.  My  modesty  inducing 
me  to  draw  off,  some  hundreds  of  yards,  into  a dark  cor- 
ner, they  at  once  forgot  me,  and  applied  themselves  to 
their  former  occupation  of  looking  at  the  mud  and  looking 
in  at  the  closed  doors : which,  being  of  grated  ironwork, 
allowed  the  lighted  passage  within  to  be  seen.  They  were 
chiefly  people  of  respectable  appearance,  odd  and  impulsive 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRxVVELLER. 


33 


as  most  crowds  are,  and  making  a joke  of  being  there  as 
most  crowds  do. 

In  the  dark  corner  I might  have  sat  a long  while,  but 
that  a very  obliging  passer-by  informed  me  that  the  Theatre 
was  already  full,  and  that  the  people  whom  I saw  in  the 
street  were  all  shut  out  for  want  of  room.  After  that,  I lost 
no  time  in  worming  myself  into  the  building,  and  creeping 
to  a place  in  a Proscenium  box  that  had  been  kept  for  me. 

There  must  have  been  full  four  thousand  people  pres- 
ent, Carefully  estimating  the  pit  alone,  I could  bring  it 
out  as  holding  little  less  than  fourteen  hundred.  Every 
part  of  the  house  was  well  filled,  and  I had  not  found  it 
easy  to  make  my  way  along  the  back  of  the  boxes  to  where 
I sat.  The  chandeliers  in  the  ceiling  were  lighted;  there 
was  no  light  on  the  stage;  the  orchestra  was  empty.  The 
green  curtain  was  down,  and,  packed  pretty  closely  on 
chairs  on  the  small  space  of  stage  before  it,  were  some 
thirty  gentlemen,  and  two  or  three  ladies.  In  the  centre 
of  these,  in  a desk  or  pulpit  covered  with  red  baize,  was 
the  presiding  minister.  The  kind  of  rostrum  he  occupied 
will  be  very  well  understood,  if  I liken  it  to  a boarded-up- 
fireplace  turned  towards  the  audience,  with  a gentleman  in 
a black  surtout  standing  in  the  stove  and  leaning  forward 
over  the  mantelpiece. 

A portion  of  Scripture  was  being  read  when  I went  in. 
It  was  followed  by  a discourse,  to  which  the  congregation 
listened  with  most  exemplary  attention  and  uninterrupted 
silence  and  decorum.  My  own  attention  comprehended 
both  the  auditory  and  the  speaker,  and  shall  turn  to  both 
in  this  recalling  of  the  scene,  exactly  as  it  did  at  the  time. 

A very  difficult  thing,”  I thought,  when  the  discourse 
began,  ‘Ho  speak  appropriately  to  so  large  an  audience, 
and  to  speak  with  tact.  Without  it,  better  not  to  speak 
at  all.  Infinitely  better,  to  read  the  New  Testament  well, 
and  to  let  that  speak.  In  this  congregation  there  is  in- 
dubitably one  pulse;  but  I doubt  if  any  power  short  of 
genius  can  touch  it  as  one,  and  make  it  answer  as  one.” 

I could  not  possibly  say  to  myself  as  the  discourse  pro- 
ceeded, that  the  minister  was  a good  speaker.  I could  not 
possibly  say  to  myself  that  he  expressed  an  understanding  of 
the  general  mind  and  character  of  his  audience.  There  was 
a supposititious  working-man  introduced  into  the  homily, 
to  make  supposititious  objections  to  our  Christian  j^ligion 


34 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TIiAVELLER. 


and  be  reasoned  down,  who  was  not  only  a very  disagree- 
able person,  but  remarkably  unlike  life — very  much  more 
unlike  it  than  anything  I had  seen  in  the  pantomime.  The 
native  independence  of  character  this  artisan  was  supposed 
to  possess,  was  represented  by  a suggestion  of  a dialect 
that  I certainly  never  heard  in  my  uncommercial  travels, 
and  with  a coarse  swing  of  voice  and  manner  anything  but 
agreeable  to  his  feelings  I should  conceive,  considered  in 
the  light  of  a portrait,  and  as  far  away  from  the  fact  as  a 
Chinese  Tartar.  There  was  a model  pauper  introduced  in 
like  manner,  who  appeared  to  me  to  be  the  most  intoler- 
ably arrogant  pauper  ever  relieved,  and  to  show  himself  in 
absolute  want  and  dire  necessity  of  a course  of  Stone  Yard. 
For,  how  did  this  pauper  testify  to  his  having  received  the 
gospel  of  humility?  A gentleman  met  him  in  the  work- 
house,  and  said  (which  I myself  really  thought  good-na- 
tured of  him),  Ah,  John?  I am  sorry  to  see  you  here. 
I am  sorry  to  see  you  so  poor.”  ^^Poor,  sir ! ” replied  that 
man,  drawing  himself  up,  I am  the  son  of  a Prince ! My 
father  is  the  King  of  Kings.  My  father  is  the  Lord  of 
Lords.  My  father  is  the  ruler  of  all  the  Princes  of  the 
Earth!  ” &c.  And  this  was  what  all  the  preacher’s  fellow- 
sinners  might  come  to,  if  they  would  embrace  this  blessed 
book — which  I must  say  it  did  some  violence  to  my  own 
feelings  of  reverence,  to  see  held  out  at  arm’s  length  at 
frequent  intervals  and  soundingly  slapped,  like  a slow  lot  at 
a sale.  Now,  could  I help  asking  myself  the  question, 
whether  the  mechanic  before  me,  who  must  detect  the 
preacher  as  being  wrong  about  the  visible  manner  of  him- 
self and  the  like  of  himself,  and  about  such  a noisy  lip- 
server  as  that  pauper,  might  not,  most  unhappily  for  the 
usefulness  of  the  occasion,  doubt  that  preacher’s  being 
right  about  things  not  visible  to  human  senses? 

Again.  Is  it  necessary  or  advisable  to  address  such  an 
audience  continually  as  fellow-sinners  ” ? Is  it  not  enough 
to  be  fellow-creatures,  born  yesterday,  suffering  and  striv- 
ing to-day,  dying  to-morrow?  By  our  common  humanity, 
my  brothers  and  sisters,  by  our  common  capacities  for  pain 
and  pleasure,  by  our  common  laughter  and  our  common 
tears,  by  our  common  aspiration  to  reach  something  better 
than  ourselves,  by  our  common  tendency  to  believe  in  some- 
thin^^ood,  and  to  invest  whatever  we  love  or  whatever 
we  los^with  some  qualities  that  are  superior  to  our  own 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


35 


failings  and  weaknesses  as  we  know  them  in  our  own  poor 
hearts — by  these,  Hear  me! — Surely,  it  is  enough  to  be 
fellow-creatures.  Surely,  it  includes  the  other  designation, 
and  some  touching  meanings  over  and  above. 

Again.  There  was  a personage  introduced  into  the  dis- 
course (not  an  absolute  novelty,  to  the  best  of  my  remem- 
brance of  my  reading),  who  had  been  personally  known  to 
the  preacher,  and  had  been  quite  a Crichton  in  all  the  ways 
of  philosophy,  but  had  been  an  infidel.  Many  a time  had 
the  preacher  talked  with  him  on  that  subject,  and  many  a 
time  had  he  failed  to  convince  that  intelligent  man.  But 
he  fell  ill,  and  died,  and  before  he  died  he  recorded  his 
V)nversion — in  words  which  the  preacher  had  taken  down, 
iny  fellow-sinners,  and  would  read  to  you  from  this  piece 
of  paper.  I must  confess  that  to  me,  as  one  of  an  unin- 
structed audience,  they  did  not  appear  particularly  edify- 
ing. I thought  their  tone  extremely  selfish,  and  I thought 
they  had  a spiritual  vanity  in  them  which  was  of  the  be- 
fore-mentioned refractory  pauper’s  family. 

All  slangs  and  twangs  are  objectionable  everywhere,  but 
the  slang  and  twang  of  the  conventicle — as  bad  in  its  way 
as  that  of  the  House  of  Commons,  and  nothing  worse  can 
be  said  of  it — should  be  studiously  avoided  under  such  cir- 
cumstances as  I describe.  The  avoidance  was  not  complete 
on  this  occasion.  Nor  was  it  quite  agreeable  to  see  the 
preacher  addressing  his  pet  points  ” to  his  backers  on  the 
stage,  as  if  appealing  to  those  disciples  to  show  him  up, 
and  testify  to  the  multitude  that  each  of  those  points  was 
a clincher. 

But,  in  respect  of  the  large  Christianity  of  his  general 
tone;  of  his  renunciation  of  all  priestly  authority;  of  his 
earnest  and  reiterated  assurance  to  the  people  that  the  com- 
monest among  them  could  work  out  their  own  salvation  if 
they  would,  by  simply,  lovingly,  and  dutifully  following 
Our  Saviour,  and  that  they  needed  the  mediation  of  no 
erring  man;  in  these  particulars,  this  gentleman  deserved 
all  praise.  Nothing  could  be  better  than  the  spirit,  or  the 
plain  emphatic  words  of  his  discourse  in  these  respects. 
And  it  was  a most  significant  and  encouraging  circumstance 
that  whenever  he  struck  that  chord,  or  whenever  he  de- 
scribed anything  which  Christ  himself  had  done,  the  array 
of  faces  before  him  was  very  much  more  earnest,  and  very 
much  more  expressive  of  emotion,  than  at  any  other  time. 


36 


THE  UNCOMMEUOIAL  TRAVELLER. 

And  now,  I am  brought  to  the  fact,  that  the  lowest  part 
of  the  audience  of  the  previous  night,  was  not  there.  There 
is  no  doubt  about  it.  There  was  no  such  thing  in  that 
building,  that  Sunday  evening.  I have  been  told  since, 
that  the  lowest  part  of  the  audience  of  the  Victoria  Theatre 
has  been  attracted  to  its  Sunday  services.  I have  been 
^l^d  hear  it,  but  on  this  occasion  of  which  I write, 
the  lowest  part  of  the  usual  audience  of  the  Britannia 
Theatre,  decidedly  and  unquestionably  stayed  away.  When 
I hist  took  my  seat  and  looked  at  the  liouse,  my  surprise 
at  the  change  in  its  occupants  was  as  great  as  my  disap- 
pointment. To  the  most  respectable  class  of  the  previous 
evening,  was  added  a great  number  of  respectable  strangers 
attracted  by  curiosity,  and  drafts  from  the  regular  congre- 
gations of  various  chapels.  It  was  impossible  to  fail  in 
identifying  the  character  of  these  last,  and  they  were  very 
numerous.  I came  out  in  a strong,  slow  tide  of  them  set- 
ting from  the  boxes.  Indeed,  while  the  discourse  was  in 
progress,  tlie  respectable  character  of  the  auditory  was  so 
manifest  in  their  appearance,  that  when  the  minister  ad- 
dressed a supposititious  “outcast,”  one  really  felt  a little 
impatient  of  it,  as  a hgure  of  speech  not  justihed  by  any- 
thing the  eye  could  discover. 

The  time  appointed  for  the  conclusion  of  the  proceedings 
was  eight  o’clock.  The  address  having  lasted  until  full 
that  time,  and  it  being  the  custom  to  conclude  with  a 
hymn,  the  preacher  intimated  in  a few  sensible  words  that 
the  clock  had  struck  the  hour,  and  that  those  who  desired 
to  go  before  the  hymn  was  sung,  could  go  now,  without 
giving  offence.  No  one  stirred.  The  hymn  was  then  sung, 
in  good  time  and  tune  and  unison,  and  its  effect  was  very 
striking.  A comprehensive  benevolent  prayer  dismissed 
the  throng,  and  in  seven  or  eight  minutes  there  was  nothing 
left  in  the  Theatre  but  a light  cloud  of  dust. 

That  these  Sunday  meetings  in  Theatres  are  good  things, 

I do  not  doubt.  Nor  do  I doubt  that  they  will  work  lower 
and  lower  down  in  the  social  scale,  if  those  who  preside 
over  them  will  be  very  careful  on  two  heads : firstly,  not 
to  disparage  the  places  in  which  they  speak,  or  the  'intel- 
ligence of  their  hearers;  secondly,  not  to  set  themselves  in 
antagonism  to  the  natural  inborn  desire  of  the  mass  of  man- 
kind to  recreate  themselves  and  to  be  amused. 

There  is  a third  head,  taking  precedence  of  all  others,  to 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


37 


which  my  remarks  on  the  discourse  I heard,  have  tended. 
In  the  New  Testament  there  is  the  most  beautiful  and  af- 
fecting history  conceivable  by  man,  and  there  are  the  terse 
models  for  all  prayer  and  for  all  preaching.  As  to  the  mod- 
els, imitate  them,  Sunday  preachers — else  why  are  they 
there,  consider?  As  to  the  history,  tell  it.  Some  people 
cannot  read,  some  people  will  not  read,  many  people  (this 
especially  holds  among  the  young  and  ignorant)  find  it  hard 
to  pursue  the  verse-form  in  which  the  book  is  presented  to 
them,  and  imagine  that  those  breaks  imply  gaps  and  want 
of  continuity.  Help  them  over  that  first  stumbling-block, 
by  setting  forth  the  history  in  narrative,  with  no  fear  of 
exhausting  it.  You  will  never  preach  so  well,  you  will 
never  move  them  so  profoundly,  you  will  never  send  them 
away  with  half  so  much  to  think  of.  W^hich  is  the  bet- 
ter interest:  Christ’s  choice  of  twelve  poor  men  to  help  in 
those  merciful  wonders  among  the  poor  and  rejected;  or 
the  pious  bullying  of  a whole  Union-full  of  paupers?  What 
is  your  changed  philosopher  to  wretched  me,  peeping  in  at 
the  door  out  of  the  mud  of  the  streets  and  of  my  life,  when 
you  have  the  widow’s  son  to  tell  me  about,  the  ruler’s 
daughter,  the  other  figure  at  the  door  when  the  brother  of 
the  two  sisters  was  dead,  and  one  of  the  two  ran  to  the 
mourner,  crying,  ^^The  Master  is  come  and  calleth  for 
thee  ”? — Let  the  preacher  who  will  thoroughly  forget  him- 
self and  remember  no  individuality  but  one,  and  no  elo- 
quence but  one,  stand  up  before  four  thousand  men  and 
women  at  the  Britannia  Theatre  any  Sunday  night,  re- 
counting that  narrative  to  them  as  fellow-creatures,  and  he 
shall  see  a sight ! 


V. 

POOR  MERCANTILE  JACK. 

Is  the  sweet  little  cherub  who  sits  smiling  aloft  and 
keeps  watch  on  the  life  of  poor  Jack,  commissioned  to  take 
charge  of  Mercantile  Jack,  as  well  as  Jack  of  the  national 
navy?  If  not,  who  is?  What  is  the  cherub  about,  and 
what  are  we  all  about,  when  poor  Mercantile  Jack  is  hav- 
ing his  brains  slowly  knocked  out  by  pennyweights,  aboard 
the  brig  Beelzebub,  or  the  barque  Bowie-knife — when  he 


38 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

looks  his  last  at  that  infernal  craft,  with  the  first  officer’s 
iron  boot-heel  in  his  remaining  eye,  or  with  his  dying  body 
towed  overboard  in  the  ship’s  wake,  while  the  cruel  wounds 
in  it  do  “the  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine”? 

Is  it  unreasonable  to  entertain  a belief  that  if,  aboard  the 
brig  Beelzebub  or  the  barque  Bowie-knife,  the  first  officer 
did  half  the  damage  to  cotton  that  he  does  to  men,  there 
would  presently  arise  from  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  so 
vociferous  an  invocation  of  the  sweet  little  cherub  who  sits 
calculating  aloft,  keeping  watch  on  the  markets  that  pay, 
that  such  vigilant  cherub  would,  with  a winged  sword, 
have  that  gallant  officer’s  organ  of  destructiveness  out  of 
his  head  in  the  space  of  a flash  of  lightning? 

If  it  be  unreasonable,  then  am  I the  most  unreasonable 
of  men,  for  I believe  it  with  all  my  soul. 

This  was  my  thought  as  I walked  the  dock-quays  at 
Liverpool,  keeping  watch  on  poor  Mercantile  Jack.  Alas 
for  me!  I have  long  outgrown  the  state  of  sweet  little 
cherub;  but  there  I was,  and  there  Mercantile  Jack  was, 
and  very  busy  he  was,  and  very  cold  he  was : the  snow  yet 
lying  in  the  frozen  furrows  of  the  land,  and  the  north-east 
winds  snipping  off  the  tops  of  the  little  waves  in  the  Mer- 
sey, and  rolling  them  into  hailstones  to  pelt  him  with. 
Mercantile  Jack  was  hard  at  it,  in  the  hard  weather:  as  he 
mostly  is  in  all  weathers,  poor  Jack.  He  was  girded  to 
ships’  masts  and  funnels  of  steamers,  like  a forester  to  a 
great  oak,  scraping  and  painting ; he  was  lying  out  on 
yards,  furling  sails  that  tried  to  beat  him  off;  he  was  dimly 
discernible  up  in  a world  of  giant  cobwebs,  reefing  and 
splicing;  he  was  faintly  audible  down  in  holds,  stowing 
and  unshipping  cargo;  he  was  winding  round  and  round  at 
capstans  melodious,  monotonous,  and  drunk;  he  was  of  a 
diabolical  aspect,  with  coaling  for  the  Antipodes;  he  was 
washing  decks  barefoot,  with  the  breast  of  his  red  shirt 
open  to  the  blast,  though  it  was  sharper  than  the  knife  in 
his  leathern  girdle;  he  was  looking  over  bulwarks,  all 
eyes  and  hair;  he  was  standing  by  at  the  shoot  of  the 
Cunard  steamer,  off  to-morrow,  as  the  stocks  in  trade  of 
several  butchers,  poulterers,  and  fishmongers,  poured  down 
into  the  ice-house;  he  was  coming  aboard  of  other  vessels, 
with  his  kit  in  a tarpaulin  bag,  attended  by  plunderers  to 
the  very  last  moment  of  his  shore-going  existence.  As 
though  his  senses  when  released  from  the  uproar  of  the 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


39 


elements,  were  under  obligation  to  be  confused  by  other 
turmoil,  there  was  a rattling  of  wheels,  a clattering  of 
hoofs,  a clashing  of  iron,  a jolting  of  cotton  and  hides  and 
casks  and  timber,  an  incessant  deafening  disturbance  on  the 
quays,  that  was  the  very  madness  of  sound.  And  as,  in  the 
midst  of  it,  he  stood  swaying  about,  with  his  hair  blown 
all  manner  of  wild  ways,  rather  crazedly  taking  leave  of 
his  plunderers,  all  the  rigging  in  the  docks  was  shrill  in  the 
wind,  and  every  little  steamer  coming  and  going  across  the 
Mersey  was  sharp  in  its  blowing  off,  and  every  buoy  in  the 
river  bobbed  spitefully  up  and  down,  as  if  there  were  a 
general  taunting  chorus  of  '‘Come  along.  Mercantile  Jack! 
Ill-lodged,  ill-fed,  ill-used,  hocussed,  entrapped,  anticipa- 
ted, cleaned  out.  Come  along.  Poor  Mercantile  Jack,  and 
be  tempest-tossed  till  you  are  drowned ! 

The  uncommercial  transaction  which  had  brought  me  and 
Jack  together,  was  this: — I had  entered  the  Liverpool  po- 
lice-force, that  I might  have  a look  at  the  various  unlaw- 
ful traps  which  are  every  night  set  for  Jack.  As  my  term 
of  service  in  that  distinguished  corps  was  short,  and  as  my 
personal  bias  in  the  capacity  of  one  of  its  members  has 
ceased,  no  suspicion  will  attach  to  my  evidence  that  it  is 
an  admirable  force.  Besides  that  it  is  composed,  without 
favour,  of  the  best  men  that  can  be  picked,  it  is  directed 
by  an  unusual  intelligence.  Its  organisation  against  Fires, 
I take  to  be  much  better  than  the  metropolitan  system,  and 
in  all  respects  it  tempers  its  remarkable  vigilance  with  a 
still  more  remarkable  discretion. 

Jack  had  knocked  off  work  in  the  docks  some  hours,  and 
I had  taken,  for  purposes  of  identification,  a photograph- 
likeness  of  a thief,  in  the  portrait-room  at  our  head  police 
office  (on  the  whole,  he  seemed  rather  complimented  by 
the  proceeding),  and  I had  been  on  police  parade,  and  the 
small  hand  of  the  clock  was  moving  on  to  ten,  when  I took 
up  my  lantern  to  follow  Mr.  Superintendent  to  the  traps 
that  were  set  for  Jack.  In  Mr.  Superintendent  I saw,  as 
anybody  might,  a tall  well-looking  well  set-up  man  of  a 
soldierly  bearing,  with  a cavalry  air,  a good  chest,  and  a 
resolute  but  not  by  any  means  ungentle  face.  He  carried 
in  his  hand  a plain  black  walking-stick  of  hard  wood;  and 
whenever  and  wherever,  at  any  after-time  of  the  night,  he 
struck  it  on  the  pavement  with  a ringing  sound,  it  instantly 
produced  a whistle  out  of  the  darkness,  and  a policeman. 


40 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


To  this  remarkable  stick,  I refer  an  air  of  mystery  and 
magic  which  pervaded  the  whole  of  my  perquisition  among 
the  traps  that  were  set  for  Jack. 

We  began  by  diving  into  the  obscurest  streets  and  lanes 
of  the  port.  Suddenly  pausing  in  a flow  of  cheerful  dis- 
course, before  a dead  wall,  apparently  some  ten  miles  long, 
Mr.  Superintendent  struck  upon  the  ground,  and  the  wall 
opened  and  shot  out,  with  military  salute  of  hand  to  tem- 
ple, two  policemen — not  in  the  least  surprised  themselves, 
not  in  the  least  surprising  Mr.  Superintendent. 

All  right,  Sharpeye?  ” 

^‘All  right,  sir.” 

All  right,  Trampfoot?  ” 

“All  right,  sir.” 

“ Is  Quickear  there?  ” 

“Here  am  I,  sir.” 

“ Come  with  us.” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

So  Sharpeye  went  before,  and  Mr.  Superintendent  and  I 
went  next,  and  Trampfoot  and  Quickear  marched  as  rear- 
guard. Sharpeye,  I soon  had  occasion  to  remark,  had  a 
skilful  and  quite  professional  way  of  opening  doors — 
touched  latches  delicately,  as  if  they  were  keys  of  musical 
instruments — opened  every  door  he  touched,  as  if  he  were 
perfectly  confident  that  there  was  stolen  property  behind  it 
— instantly  insinuated  himself,  to  prevent  its  being  shut. 

Sharpeye  opened  several  doors  of  traps  that  were  set  for 
Jack,  but  Jack  did  not  happen  to  be  in  any  of  them.  They 
were  all  such  miserable  places  that  really.  Jack,  if  I were 
you,  I would  give  them  a wider  berth.  In  every  trap, 
somebody  was  sitting  over  a fire,  waiting  for  Jack.  Now, 
it  was  a crouching  old  woman,  like  the  picture  of  the  Nor- 
wood Gipsy  ill  the  old  sixpenny  dream-books;  now,  it  was 
a crimp  of  the  male  sex,  in  a checked  shirt  and  without  a 
coat,  reading  a newspaper;  now,  it  was  a man  crimp  ajnd  a 
woman  crimp,  who  always  introduced  themselves  as  united 
in  holy  matrimony;  now,  it  was  Jack’s  delight,  his  (un)- 
lovely  Nan;  but  they  were  all  waiting  for  Jack,  and  were 
all  frightfully  disappointed  to  see  us. 

“Who  have  you  got  up-stairs  here?”  says  Sharpeye, 
generally.  (In  the  Move-on  tone.) 

“Nobody,  suit;  sure  not  a blessed  sowl!  ” (Irish  femi- 
nine reply.) 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


41 


What  do  you  mean  by  nobody?  Didn’t  I hear  a wom- 
an’s step  go  up-stairs  when  my  hand  was  on  the  latch?  ” 

^^Ah!  sure  thin  you’re  right,  suit,  I forgot  her!  ’Tis 
on’y  Betsy  White,  suit*.  Ah!  you  know  Betsy,  surr. 
Come  down,  Betsy  darlin’,  and  say  the  gintlemin.” 

Generally,  Betsy  looks  over  the  banisters  (the  steep  stair- 
case is  in  the  room)  with  a forcible  expression  in  her  pro- 
testing face,  of  an  intention  to  compensate  herself  for  the 
present  trial  by  grinding  Jack  finer  than  usual  when  he 
does  come.  Generally,  Sharpeye  turns  to  Mr.  Superintend- 
ent, and  says,  as  if  the  subjects  of  his  remarks  were  wax- 
work  : 

One  of  the  worst,  sir,  this  house  is.  This  woman  has 
been  indicted  three  times.  This  man’s  a regular  bad  one 
likewise.  His  real  name  is  Pegg.  Gives  himself  out  as 
Waterhouse.” 

“Never  had  sitch  a name  as  Pegg  near  me  back,  thin, 
since  I was  in  this  house,  bee  the  good  Lard ! ” says  the 
woman. 

Generally,  the  man  says  nothing  at  all,  but  becomes  ex- 
ceedingly round-shouldered,  and  pretends  to  read  his  paper 
with  rapt  attention.  Generally,  Sharpeye  directs  our  ob- 
servation with  a look,  to  the  prints  and  pictures  that  are 
invariably  numerous  on  the  walls.  Always,  Trampfoot  and 
Quickear  are  taking  notice  on  the  doorstep.  In  default  of 
Sharpeye  being  acquainted  with  the  exact  individuality  of 
any  gentleman  encountered,  one  of  these  two  is  sure  to 
proclaim  from  the  outer  air,  like  a gruff  spectre,  that  Jack- 
son  is  not  Jackson,  but  knows  himself  to  be  Fogle;  or  that 
Canlon  is  Walker’s  brother,  against  whom  there  was  not 
sufficient  evidence;  or  that  the  man  who  says  he  never  was 
at  sea  since  he  was  a boy,  came  ashore  from  a voyage  last 
Thursday,  or  sails  to-morrow  morning.  “And  that  is  a 
bad  class  of  man,  you  see,”  says  Mr.  Superintendent,  when 
he  got  out  into  the  dark  again,  “and  very  difficult  to  deal 
with,  who,  when  he  has  made  this  place  too  hot  to  hold 
him,  enters  himself  for  a voyage  as  steward  or  cook,  and 
is  out  of  knowledge  for  months,  and  then  turns  up  again 
worse  than  ever.” 

When  we  had  gone  into  many  such  houses,  and  had  come 
out  (always  leaving  everybody  relapsing  into  waiting  for 
Jack),  we  started  off  to  a singing-house  where  Jack  was 
expected  to  muster  strong. 


42 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


The  vocalisation  was  taking  place  in  a long  low  room  up- 
stairs; at  one  end,  an  orchestra  of  two  performers,  and  a 
small  platform;  across  the  room,  a series  of  open  pews  for 
Jack,  with  an  aisle  down  the  middle;  at  the  other  end  a 
larger  pew  than  the  rest,  entitled  Snug,  and  reserved  for 
mates  and  similar  good  company.  About  the  room,  some 
amazing  coffee-coloured  pictures  varnished  an  inch  deep, 
and  some  stuffed  creatures  in  cases;  dotted  among  the  audi- 
ence, in  Snug  and  out  of  Snug,  the  Professionals;  ” among 
them,  the  celebrated  comic  favourite  Mr.  Banjo  Bones, 
looking  very  hideous  with  his  blackened  face  and  limp 
sugar-loaf  hat;  beside  him,  sipping  rum-and-water,  Mrs. 
Banjo  Bones,  in  her  natural  colours — a little  heightened. 

It  was  a Friday  night,  and  Friday  night  was  considered 
not  a good  night  for  Jack.  At  any  rate.  Jack  did  not  show 
in  very  great  force  even  here,  though  the  house  was  one  to 
which  he  much  resorts,  and  where  a good  deal  of  money 
is  taken.  There  was  British  Jack,  a little  maudlin  and 
sleepy,  lolling  over  his  empty  glass,  as  if  he  were  trying  to 
read  his  fortune  at  the  bottom.;  there  was  Loafing  Jack  of 
the  Stars  and  Stripes,  rather  an  unpromising  customer,  with 
his  long  nose,  lank  cheek,  high  cheek-bones,  and  nothing 
soft  about  him  but  his  cabbage-leaf  hat;  there  was  Spanish 
Jack,  with  curls  of  black  hair,  rings  in  his  ears,  and  a 
knife  not  far  from  his  hand,  if  you  got  into  troul)le  with 
him;  there  were  Maltese  Jack,  and  Jack  of  Sweden,  and 
Jack  the  Finn,  looming  through  the  smoke  of  their  pipes, 
and  turning  faces  that  looked  as  if  they  were  carved  out  of 
dark  wood,  towards  the  young  lady  dancing  the  hornpipe : 
who  found  the  platform  so  exceedingly  small  for  it,  that  I 
had  a nervous  expectation  of  seeing  her,  in  the  backward 
steps,  disappear  through  the  window.  Still,  if  all  hands 
had  been  got  together,  they  would  not  have  more  than 
half- filled  the  room.  Observe,  however,  said  Mr.  Licensed 
Victualler,  the  host,  that  it  was  Friday  night,  and,  besides, 
it  was  getting  on  for  twelve,  and  Jack  had  gone  abroad. 
A sharp  and  watchful  man,  Mr.  Licensed  Victualler,  the 
host,  with  tight  lips  and  a complete  edition  of  Cocker^  s 
arithmetic  in  each  eye.  Attended  to  his  business  himself, 
he  said.  Always  on  the  spot.  Wlien  he  heard  of  talent, 
trusted  nobody’s  account  of  it,  but  went  off  by  rail  to  see 
it.  If  true  talent,  engaged  it.  Pounds  a week  for  talent — 
four  pound — five  pound.  Banjo  Bones  was  undoubted 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


43 


talent.  Hear  this  instrument  that  was  going  to  play — it 
was  real  talent!  In  truth  it  was  very  good;  a kind  of 
piano-accordion,  played  by  a young  girl  of  a delicate  pret- 
tiness of  face,  figure,  and  dress,  that  made  the  audience 
look  coarser.  She  sang  to  the  instrument,  too;  first,  a song 
about  village  bells,  and  how  they  chimed;  then  a song 
about  how  I went  to  sea;  winding  up  with  an  imitation  of 
the  bagpipes,  which  Mercantile  Jack  seemed  to  understand 
much  the  best.  A good  girl,  said  Mr.  Licensed  Victual- 
ler. Kept  herself  select.  Sat  in  Snug,  not  listening  to 
the  blandishments  of  Mates.  Lived  with  mother.  Father 
dead.  Once  a merchant  well  to  do,  but  over-speculated 
himself.  On  delicate  inquiry  as  to  salary  paid  for  item  of 
talent  under  consideration,  Mr.  Victualler’s  pounds  dropped 
suddenly  to  shillings — still  it  was  a very  comfortable  thing 
for  a young  person  like  that,  you  know;  she  only  went  on 
six  times  a night,  and  was  only  required  to  be  there  from 
six  at  night  to  twelve.  What  was  more  conclusive  was, 
Mr.  Victualler’s  assurance  that  he  never  allowed  any  lan- 
guage, and  never  suffered  any  disturbance.”  Sharpeye 
confirmed  the  statement,  and  the  order  that  prevailed  was 
the  best  proof  of  it  that  could  have  been  cited.  So,  I came 
to  the  conclusion  that  poor  Mercantile  Jack  might  do  (as  T 
am  afraid  he  does)  much  worse  than  trust  himself  to  Mr. 
Victualler,  and  pass  his  evenings  here. 

But  we  had  not  yet  looked,  Mr.  Superintendent — said 
Trampfoot,  receiving  us  in  the  street  again  with  military 
salute — for  Dark  Jack.  True,  Trampfoot.  Ring  the  won- 
derful stick,  rub  the  wonderful  lantern,  and  cause  the 
spirits  of  the  stick  and  lantern  to  convey  us  to  the  Darkies. 

There  was  no  disappointment  in  the  matter  of  Dark 
Jack;  he  was  producible.  The  Genii  set  us  down  in  the 
little  first  floor  of  a little  public-house,  and  there,  in  a 
stiflingly  close  atmosphere,  were  Dark  Jack,  and  Dark 
Jack’s  delight,  his  white  unlovely  Kan,  sitting  against  the 
wall  all  round  the  room.  More  than  that:  Dark  Jack’s  de- 
light was  the  least  unlovely  Kan,  both  morally  and  physi- 
cally, that  I saw  that  night. 

As  a fiddle  and  tambourine  band  were  sitting  among  the 
company,  Quickear  suggested  why  not  strike  up?  ‘‘Ah, 
la’ads ! ” said  a negro  sitting  by  the  door,  “ gib  the  jebblem 
a darnse.  Tak’  yah  pardlers,  jebblem,  for  ’um  QU^D-rill.” 

This  was  the  landlord,  in  a Greek  cap,  and  a dress  half 


44 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Greek  and  half  English.  As  master  of  the  ceremonies,  he 
called  all  the  figures,  and  occasionally  addressed  himself 
parenthetically — after  this  manner.  When  he  was  very 
loud,  I use  capitals. 

‘‘Now  den!  Hoy!  One.  Right  and  left.  (Put  a 
steam  on,  gib  ^um  powder.)  LA-dies’  chail.  BAL-loon 
say.  Lemonade!  Two.  An-warnse  and  go  back  (gib  ’ell 
a breakdown,  shake  it  out  o’  yerselbs,  keep  a movil). 
SwiNG-corners,  Bal-Ioou  say,  and  Lemonade!  (Hoy!) 
Three.  Gent  come  for’ard  with  a lady  and  go  back,  hop- 
persite  come  for’ard  and  do  what  yer  can.  (Aeiohoy!) 
BAL-loon  say,  and  leetle  lemonade  (Dat  hair  nigger  by  ’um 
fireplace  ’hind  a’  time,  shake  it  out  o’  yerselbs,  gib  ’ell  a 
breakdown).  Now  den!  Hoy!  Four!  Lemonade.  BAL- 
loon  say,  and  swing.  Four  ladies  meets  in  ’um  middle, 
FOUR  gents  goes  round  ’um  ladies,  four  gents  passes  out 
under  ’um  ladies’  arms,  swing — and  Lemonade  till  ’a 
moosic  can’t  play  no  more ! (Hoy,  Hoy !)  ” 

The  male  dancers  were  all  blacks,  and  one  was  an  un- 
usually powerful  man  of  six  feet  three  or  four.  The  sound 
of  their  flat  feet  on  the  floor  was  as  unlike  the  sound  of 
white  feet  as  their  faces  were  unlike  white  faces.  They 
toed  and  heeled,  shuffled,  double-shuffled,  double-double- 
shuffled,  covered  the  buckle,  and  beat  the  time  out,  rarely, 
dancing  with  a great  show  of  teeth,  and  with  a childish 
good-humoured  enjoyment  that  was  very  prepossessing. 
They  generally  kept  together,  these  poor  fellows,  said  Mr. 
Superintendent,  because  they  were  at  a disadvantage  singly, 
and  liable  to  slights  in  the  neighbouring  streets.  But,  if  I 
were  Light  Jack,  I should  be  very  slow  to  interfere  op- 
pressively with  Dark  Jack,  for,  whenever  I have  had  to  do 
with  him  I have  found  him  a simple  and  a gentle  fellow. 
Bearing  this  in  mind,  I asked  his  friendly  permission  to 
leave  him  restoration  of  beer,  in  wishing  him  good  night, 
and  thus  it  fell  out  that  the  last  words  I heard  him  say  as 
I blundered  down  the  worn  stairs,  were,  “ Jebblem’s  elth! 
Ladies  drinks  fust ! ” 

The  night  was  now  well  on  into  the  morning,  but,  for 
miles  and  hours  we  explored  a strange  world,  where  no- 
body ever  goes  to  bed,  but  everybody  is  eternally  sitting 
up,  waiting  for  Jack.  This  exploration  was  among  a laby- 
rinth of  dismal  courts  and  blind  alleys,  called  Entries, 
kept  in  wonderful  order  by  the  police,  and  in  much  better 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


45 


order  than  by  the  corporation:  the  want  of  gaslight  in  the 
most  dangerous  and  infamous  of  these  places  being  quite 
unworthy  of  so  spirited  a town.  I need  describe  but  two 
or  three  of  the  houses  in  which  Jack  was  waited  for  as 
specimens  of  the  rest.  Many  we  attained  by  noisome  pas- 
sages so  profoundly  dark  that  we  felt  our  way  with  our 
hands.  Not  one  of  the  whole  number  we  visited,  was 
without  its  show  of  prints  and  ornamented  crockery;  the 
quantity  of  the  latter  set  forth  on  little  shelves  and  in  little 
cases,  in  otherwise  wretched  rooms,  indicating  that  Mer- 
cantile Jack  must  have  an  extraordinary  fondness  for 
crockery,  to  necessitate  so  much  of  that  bait  in  his  traps. 

Among  such  garniture,  in  one  front  parlour  in  the  dead 
of  the  night,  four  women  were  sitting  by  a fire.  One 
of  them  had  a male  child  in  her  arms.  On  a stool 
among  them  was  a swarthy  youth  with  a guitar,  who 
had  evidently  stopped  playing  when  our  footsteps  were 
heard. 

Well!  how  do  you  do?  says  Mr.  Superintendent,  look- 
ing about  him. 

Pretty  well,  sir,  and  hope  you  gentlemen  are  going  to 
treat  us  ladies,  now  you  have  come  to  see  us.^^ 

Order  there ! ’’  says  Sharpeye. 

‘^None  of  that!’^  says  Quickear. 

Trampfoot,  outside,  is  heard  to  confide  to  himself,  Meg- 
gissoiUs  lot  this  is.  And  a bad  ’un  I ’’ 

^^Well!^^  says  Mr.  Superintendent,  laying  his  hand  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  swarthy  youth,  ^‘and  who’s  this?” 

‘‘Antonio,  sir.” 

“And  what  does  he  do  here? ” 

“Come  to  give  us  a bit  of  music.  No  harm  in  that,  I 
suppose?  ” 

“ A young  foreign  sailor?  ” 

“ Yes.  He’s  a Spaniard.  You’re  a Spaniard,  ain’t  you, 
Antonio?  ” 

“Me  Spanish.” 

“And  he  don’t  know  a word  you  say,  not  he;  not  if  you 
was  to  talk  to  him  till  doomsday.”  (Triumphantly,  as  if 
it  redounded  to  the  credit  of  the  house.) 

“ Will  he  play  something?  ” 

^ “ Oh,  yes,  if  you  like.  Play  something,  Antonio.  You 
ain’t  ashamed  to  play  something;  are  you?  ” 

The  cracked  guitar  raises  the  feeblest  ghost  of  a tune. 


46 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


and  three  of  the  women  keep  time  to  it  with  their  heads, 
and  the  fourth  with  the  child.  If  Antonio  has  brought  any 
money  in  with  him,  I am  afraid  he  will  never  take  it  out, 
and  it  even  strikes  me  that  his  jacket  and  guitar  may  be 
in  a bad  way.  But,  the  look  of  the  young  man  and  the 
tinkling  of  the  instrument  so  change  the  place  in  a moment 
to  a leaf  out  of  Don  Quixote,  that  I wonder  where  his  mule 
is  stabled,  until  he  leaves  off. 

I am  bound  to  acknowledge  (as  it  tends  rather  to  my  un- 
commercial confusion),  that  I occasioned  a difficulty  in  this 
establishment,  by  having  taken  the  child  in  my  arms.  For, 
on  my  offering  to  restore  it  to  a ferocious  joker  not  unstim- 
ulated by  rum,  who  claimed  to  be  its  mother,  that  unnat- 
ural parent  put  her  hands  behind  her,  and  declined  to  ac- 
cept it;  backing  into  the  fireplace,  and  very  shrilly  declar- 
ing, regardless  of  remonstrance  from  her  friends,  that  she 
knowed  it  to  be  Law,  that  whoever  took  a child  from  its 
mother  of  his  own  will,  was  bound  to  stick  to  it.  The  un- 
commercial sense  of  being  in  a rather  ridiculous  position 
with  the  poor  little  child  beginning  to  be  frightened, 
was  relieved  by  my  worthy  friend  and  fellow-constable, 
Trampfoot;  who,  laying  hands  on  the  article  as  if  it  were 
a Bottle,  passed  it  on  to  the  nearest  woman,  and  bade 
her  ^^take  hold  of  that.’^  As  we  came  out  the  Bottle 
was  passed  to  the  ferocious  joker,  and  they  all  sat  down 
as  before,  including  Antonio  and  the  guitar.  It  was 
clear  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  a nightcap  to  this 
baby’s  head,  and  that  even  he  never  went  to  bed,  but  was 
always  kept  up — and  would  grow  up,  kept  up — waiting 
for  Jack. 

Later  still  in  the  night,  we  came  (by  the  court  where 
the  man  was  murdered,”  and  by  the  other  court  across  the 
street,  into  which  his  body  was  dragged)  to  another  parlour 
in  another  Entry,  where  several  people  were  sitting  round 
a fire  in  just  the  same  way.  It  was  a dirty  and  offensive 
place,  with  some  ragged  clothes  drying  in  it;  but  there  was 
a high  shelf  over  the  entrance-door  (to  be  out  of  the  reach 
of  marauding  hands,  possibly)  with  two  large  white  loaves 
on  it,  and  a great  piece  of  Cheshire  cheese. 

^^Well!”  says  Mr.  Superintendent,  with  a comprehen- 
sive look  all  round.  How  do  you  do?  ” 

^^Not  much  to  boast  of,  sir.”  From  the  curtseying 
woman  of  the  house.  This  is  my  good  man,  sir.  ” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


47 


You  are  not  registered  as  a common  Lodging  House? 
^^JSTo,  sir.’^ 

Sharpeye  (in  the  Move-on  tone)  puts  in  the  pertinent  in- 
quiry, ^^Then  why  ain’t  you?  ” 

Ain’t  got  no  one  here,  Mr.  Sharpeye,”  rejoins  the 
woman  and  my  good  man  together,  ^^but  our  own  family.” 
How  many  are  you  in  family?  ” 

The  woman  takes  time  to  count,  under  pretence  of  cough- 
ing, and  adds,  as  one  scant  of  breath,  Seven,  sir.” 

But  she  has  missed  one,  so  Sharpeye,  who  knows  all 
about  it,  says : 

Here’s  a young  man  here  makes  eight,  who  ain’t  of 
your  family?  ” 

^^No,  Mr.  Sharpeye,  he’s  a weekly  lodger.” 

What  does  he  do  for  a living?  ” 

The  young  man  here,  takes  the  reply  upon  himself,  and 
shortly  answers,  Ain’t  got  nothing  to  do.” 

The  young  man  here,  is  modestly  brooding  behind  a 
damp  apron  pendent  from  a clothes-line.  As  I glance  at 
him  I become — but  I don’t  know  why — vaguely  reminded 
of  Woolwich,  Chatham,  Portsmouth,  and  Dover.  When 
we  get  out,  my  respected  fellow-constable  Sharpeye  ad- 
dressing Mr.  Superintendent,  says ; 

You  noticed  that  young  man,  sir,  in  at  Darby’s?  ” 
‘‘Yes.  What  is  he?  ” 

“Deserter,  sir.” 

Mr.  Sharpeye  further  intimates  that  when  we  have  done 
with  his  services,  he  will  step  back  and  take  that  young 
man.  Which  in  course  of  time  he  does  : feeling  at  perfect 
ease  about  finding  him,  and  knowing  for  a moral  certainty 
that  nobody  in  that  region  will  be  gone  to  bed. 

Later  still  in  the  night,  we  came  to  another  parlour  up  a 
step  or  two  from  the  street,  which  was  very  cleanly,  neatly, 
even  tastefully,  kept,  and  in  which,  set  forth  on  a draped 
chest  of  drawers  masking  the  staircase,  was  such  a profu- 
sion of  ornamental  crockery,  that  it  would  have  furnished 
forth  a handsome  sale-booth  at  a fair.  It  backed  up  a stout 
old  lady — Hogarth  drew  her  exact  likeness  more  than 
once — and  a boy  who  was  carefully  writing  a copy  in  a 
copy-book. 

“ Well,  ma’am,  how  do  you  do?  ” 

Sweetly,  she  can  assure  the  dear  gentlemen,  sweetly. 
Charmingly,  charmingly.  And  overjoyed  to  see  us ! 


48 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Why,  this  is  a strange  time  for  this  boy  to  be  writing 
his  copy.  In  the  middle  of  the  night!  ” 

So  it  is,  dear  gentlemen,  Heaven  bless  your  welcome 
faces  and  send  ye  prosperous,  but  he  has  been  to  the  Play 
with  a young  friend  for  his  diversion,  and  he  combinates 
his  improvement  with  entertainment,  by  doing  his  school- 
writing afterwards,  God  be  good  to  ye ! 

The  copy  admonished  human  nature  to  subjugate  the 
fire  of  every  fierce  desire.  One  might  have  thought  it  rec- 
ommended stirring  the  fire,  the  old  lady  so  approved  it. 
There  she  sat,  rosily  beaming  at  the  copy-book  and  the 
boy,  and  invoking  showers  of  blessings  on  our  h^ads,  when 
we  left  her  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  waiting  for  Jack. 

Later  still  in  the  night,  we  came  to  a nauseous  room 
with  an  earth  floor,  into  which  the  refuse  scum  yf  an  alley 
trickled.  The  stench  of  this  habitation  was  abominable; 
the  seeming  poverty  of  it,  diseased  and  dire.  Yet,  here 
again,  was  visitor  or  lodger — a man  sitting  before  the  fire, 
like  the  rest  of  them  elsewhere,  and  apparently  not  dis- 
tasteful to  the  mistress’s  niece,  who  was  also  before  the 
fire.  The  mistress  herself  had  the  misfortune  of  being  in 
jail. 

Three  weird  old  women  of  transcendent  ghastliness,  were 
at  needlework  at  a table  in  this  room.  Says  Trampfoot  to 
First  Witch,  ‘‘What  are  you  making?”  Says  she, 
“ Money-bags.” 

“ What  are  you  making?  ” retorts  Trampfoot,  a little  off 
his  balance. 

“Bags  to  hold  your  money,”  says  the  witch,  shaking 
her  head,  and  setting  her  teeth;  “you  as  has  got  it.” 

She  holds  up  a common  cash-bag,  and  on  the  table  is  a 
heap  of  such  bags.  Witch  Two  laughs  at  us.  Witch  Three 
scowls  at  us.  Witch  sisterhood  all,  stitch,  stitch.  First 
Witch  has  a red  circle  round  each  eye.  I fancy  it  like  the 
beginning  of  the  development  of  a perverted  diabolical 
halo,  and  that  when  it  spreads  all  round  her  head,  she  will 
die  in  the  odour  of  devilry. 

Trampfoot  wishes  to  be  informed  what  First  Witch  has 
got  behind  the  table,  down  by  the  side  of  her,  there? 
Witches  Two  and  Three  croak  angrily,  “ Show  liim  the 
child!” 

She  drags  out  a skinny  little  arm  from  a brown  dustheap 
on  the  ground.  Adjured  not  to  disturb  the  child^  she  lets 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


49 


it  drop  again.  Thus  we  find  at  last  that  there  is  one  child 
in  the  world  of  Entries  who  goes  to  bed — if  this  be  bed. 

Mr.  Superintendent  asks  how  long  are  they  going  to 
work  at  those  bags? 

How  long?  First  Witch  repeats.  Going  to  have  supper 
presently.  See  the  cups  and  saucers,  and  the  plates. 

‘‘Late?  Ay!  But  we  has  to  ’arn  our  supper  afore  we 
eats  it  I ’’  Both  the  other  witches  repeat  this  after  First 
Witch,  and  take  the  Uncommercial  measurement  with  their 
eyes,  as  for  a charmed  winding-sheet.  Some  grim  discourse 
ensues,  referring  to  the  mistress  of  the  cave,  who  will  be 
released  from  jail  to-morrow.  Witches  pronounce  Tramp- 
foot  “right  there,’’  when  he  deems  it  a trying  distance  for 
the  old  lady  to  walk;  she  shall  be  fetched  by  niece  in  a 
spring-cart. 

As  I took  a parting  look  at  First  Witch  in  turning  away, 
the  red  marks  round  her  eyes  seemed  to  have  already  grown 
larger,  and  she  hungrily  and  thirstily  looked  out  beyond 
me  into  the  dark  doorway,  to  see  if  Jack  were  there.  For, 
Jack  came  even  here,  and  the  mistress  had  got  into  jail 
through  deluding  Jack. 

When  I at  last  ended  this  night  of  travel  and  got  to  bed, 
I failed  to  keep  my  mind  on  comfortable  thoughts  of  Sea- 
men’s Homes  (not  overdone  with  strictness),  and  improved 
dock  regulations  giving  Jack  greater  benefit  of  fire  and 
candle  aboard  ship,  through  my  mind’s  wandering  among 
the  vermin  I had, seen.  Afterwards  the  same  vermin  ran 
all  over  my  sleep.  Evermore,  when  on  a breezy  day  I see 
Poor  Mercantile  Jack  running  into  port  with  a fair  wind 
under  all  sail,  I shall  think  of  the  unsleeping  host  of  de- 
vourers  who  never  go  to  bed,  and  are  always  in  their  set 
traps  waiting  for  him. 


VI. 

REFRESHMENTS  FOR  TRAVELLERS. 

In  the  late  high  winds  I was  blown  to  a great  many 
places — and  indeed,  wind  or  no  wind,  I generally  have  ex- 
tensive transactions  on  hand  in  the  article  of  Air — but  I 
have  not  been  blown  to  any  English  place  lately,  and  I 


50 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


very  seldom  have  blown  to  any  English  place  in  my  life, 
where  I could  get  anything  good  to  eat  and  drink  in  five 
minutes,  or  where,  if  I sought  it,  I was  received  with  a 
welcome. 

This  is  a curious  thing  to  consider.  But  before  (stimu- 
lated by  my  own  experiences  and  the  representations  of 
many  fellow-travellers  of  every  uncommercial  and  com- 
mercial degree)  I consider  it  further,  I must  utter  a pass- 
ing word  of  wonder  concerning  high  winds. 

I wonder  why  metropolitan  gales  always  blow  so  hard  at 
Walworth.  I cannot  imagine  what  Walworth  has  done,  to 
bring  such  windy  punishment  upon  itself,  as  I never  fail 
to  find  recorded  in  the  newspapers  when  the  wind  has 
blown  at  all  hard.  Brixton  seems  to  have  something  on  its 
conscience;  Beckham  suffers  more  than  a virtuous  Beckham 
might  be  supposed  to  deserve;  the  howling  neighbourhood 
of  Deptford  figures  largely  in  the  accounts  of  the  ingenious 
gentlemen  who  are  out  in  every  wind  that  blows,  and  to 
whom  it  is  an  ill  high  wind  that  blows  no  good;  but,  there 
can  hardly  be  any  Walworth  left  by  this  time.  It  must 
surely  be  blown  away.  I have  read  of  more  chimney- 
stacks  and  house-copings  coming  down  with  terrific  smashes 
at  Walworth,  and  of  more  sacred  edifices  being  nearly  (not 
quite)  blown  out  to  sea  from  the  same  accursed  locality, 
than  I have  read  of  practised  thieves  with  the  appearance 
and  manners  of  gentlemen — a popular  phenomenon  which 
never  existed  on  earth  out  of  fiction  and  a police  report. 
Again : I wonder  why  people  are  always  blown  into  the 
Surrey  Canal,  and  into  no  other  piece  of  water ! Why  do 
people  get  up  early  and  go  out  in  groups,  to  be  blown  into 
the  Surrey  Canal?  Do  they  say  to  one  another,  “ Welcome 
death,  so  that  we  get  into  the  newspapers?  ’’  Even  that 
would  be  an  insufficient  explanation,  because  even  then 
they  might  sometimes  put  themselves  in  the  way  of  being 
blown  into  the  Regent^s  Canal,  instead  of  always  saddling 
Surrey  for  the  field.  Some  nameless  policeman,  too,  is 
constantly,  on  the  slightest  provocation,  getting  himself 
blown  into  this  same  Surrey  Canal.  Will  Sir  Richard 
Mayne  see  to  it,  and  restrain  that  weak-minded  and  feeble- 
bodied constable? 

To  resume  the  consideration  of  the  curious  question  of 
Refreshment.  I am  a Briton,  and,  as  such,  I am  aware 
that  I never  will  be  a slave — and  yet  I have  latent  suspi- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


51 


cion  that  there  must  be  some  slavery  of  wrong  custom  in 
this  matter. 

I travel  by  railroad.  I start  from  home  at  seven  or  eight 
ill  the  morning,  after  breakfasting  hurriedly.  What  with 
skimming  over  the  open  landscape,  what  with  mining  in 
the  damp  bowels  of  the  earth,  what  with  banging  booming 
and  shrieking  the  scores  of  miles  away,  I am  hungry  when 
I arrive  at  the  Refreshment station  where  I am  ex- 
pected. Please  to  observe,  expected.  I have  said,  I am 
hungry;  perhaps  I might  say,  with  greater  point  and  force, 
that  I am  to  some  extent  exhausted,  and  that  I need — in 
the  expressive  French  sense  of  the  word — to  be  restored. 
What  is  provided  for  my  restoration?  The  apartment  that 
is  to  restore  me  is  a wind-trap,  cunningly  set  to  inveigle  all 
the  draughts  in  that  country-side,  and  to  communicate  a 
special  intensity  and  velocity  to  them  as  they  rotate  in  two 
hurricanes : one,  about  my  wretched  head : one,  about  my 
wretched  legs.  The  training  of  the  young  ladies  behind 
the  counter  who  are  to  restore  me,  has  been  from  their  in- 
fancy directed  to  the  assumption  of  a defiant  dramatic  show 
that  I am  not  expected.  It  is  in  vain  for  me  to  represent 
to  them  by  my  humble  and  conciliatory  manners,  that  I 
wish  to  be  liberal.  It  is  in  vain  for  me  to  represent  to  my- 
self, for  the  encouragement  of  my  sinking  soul,  that  the 
young  ladies  have  a pecuniary  interest  in  my  arrival.  Nei- 
ther my  reason  nor  my  feelings  can  make  head  against  the 
cold  glazed  glare  of  eye  with  which  I am  assured  that  I am 
not  expected,  and  not  wanted.  The  solitary  man  among 
the  bottles  would  sometimes  take  pity  on  me,  if  he  dared, 
but  he  is  powerless  against  the  rights  and  mights  of 
Woman.  (Of  the  page  I make  no  account,  for,  he  is  a boy, 
and  therefore  the  natural  enemy  of  Creation.)  Chilling 
fast,  in  the  deadly  tornadoes  to  which  my  upper  and  lower 
extremities  are  exposed,  and  subdued  by  the  moral  disad- 
vantage at  which  I stand,  I turn  my  disconsolate  eyes  on 
the  refreshments  that  are  to  restore  me.  I find  that  I must 
either  scald  my  throat  by  insanely  ladling  into  it,  against 
time  and  for  no  wager,  brown  hot  water  stiffened  with 
flour;  or,  I must  make  myself  flaky  and  sick  with  Banbury 
cake;  or,  I must  stuff  into  my  delicate  organisation,  a cur- 
rant pincushion  which  I know  will  swell  into  immeasurable 
dimensions  when  it  has  got  there ; or,  I must  extort  from 
an  iron-bound  quarry,  with  a fork,  as  if  I were  farming 


52 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


an  inhospitable  soil,  some  glutinous  lumps  of  gristle  and 
grease,  called  pork-pie.  While  thus  forlornly  occupied,  I 
find  that  the  depressing  banquet  on  the  table  is,  in  every 
phase  of  its  profoundly  unsatisfactory  character,  so  like  the 
banquet  at  the  meanest  and  shabbiest  of  evening  parties, 
that  I begin  to  think  I must  have  ‘‘brought  down’^  to  sup- 
per, the  old  lady  unknown,  blue  with  cold,  who  is  setting 
her  teeth  on  edge  with  a cool  orange  at  my  elbow — that  the 
pastrycook  who  has  compounded  for  the  company  on  the 
lowest  terms  per  head,  is  a fraudulent  bankrupt,  redeem- 
ing his  contract  with  the  stale  stock  from  his  window — 
that,  for  some  unexplained  reason,  the  family  giving  the 
party  have  become  my  mortal  foes,  and  have  given  it  on 
purpose  to  affront  me.  Or,  I fancy  that  I am  “ breaking 
up  again,  at  the  evening  conversazione  at  school,  charged 
two-and-sixpence  in  the  half-year’s  bill;  or  breaking  down 
again  at  that  celebrated  evening  party  given  at  Mrs.  Bogles’s 
boarding-house  when  I was  a boarder  there,  on  which  occa- 
sion Mrs.  Bogles  was  taken  in  execution  by  a branch  of  the 
legal  profession  who  got  in  as  the  harp,  and  was  removed 
(with  the  keys  and  subscribed  capital)  to  a place  of  durance, 
half  an  hour  prior  to  the  commencement  of  the  festivities. 

Take  another  case. 

Mr.  Grazinglands,  of  the  Midland  Counties,  came  to 
London  by  railroad  one  morning  last  week,  accompanied 
by  the  amiable  and  fascinating  Mrs.  Grazinglands.  Mr. 
G.  is  a gentleman  of  a comfortable  property,  and  had  a 
little  business  to  transact  at  the  Bank  of  England,  which 
required  the  concurrence  and  signature  of  Mrs.  G.  Their 
business  disposed  of,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grazinglands  viewed 
the  Royal  Exchange,  and  the  exterior  of  St.  Paul’s  Cathe- 
dral. The  spirits  of  Mrs.  Grazinglands  then  gradually  be- 
ginning to  flag,  Mr.  Grazinglands  (who  is  the  tenderest  of 
husbands)  remarked  with  sympathy,  “ Arabella,  my  dear, 
I fear  you  are  faint.”  Mrs.  Grazinglands  replied,  “Alex- 
ander, I am  rather  faint;  but  don’t  mind  me,  I shall  be 
better  presently.”  Touched  by  the  feminine  meekness  of 
this  answer,  Mr.  Grazinglands  looked  in  at  a pastrycook’s 
window,  hesitating  as  to  the  expediency  of  lunching  at  that 
establishment.  He  beheld  nothing  to  eat,  but  butter  in 
various  forms,  slightly  charged  with  jam,  and  languidly 
frizzling  over  tepid  water.  Two  ancient  turtle-shells,  on 
which  was  inscribed  the  legend,  “ Soups,”  decorated  a 


It. 

■ ' -I 

■ 


•3 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  53 

glass  partition  within,  enclosing  a stuffy  alcove,  from  which 
a ghastly  mockery  of  a marriage-breakfast  spread  on  a 
rickety  table,  warned  the  terrified  traveller.  An  oblong 
box  of  stale  and  broken  pastry  at  reduced  prices,  mounted 
on  a stool,  ornamented  the  doorway;  and  two  high  chairs 
that  looked  as  if  they  were  performing  on  stilts,  embel- 
lished the  counter.  Over  the  whole,  a young  lady  pre- 
sided, whose  gloomy  haughtiness  as  she  surveyed  the  street, 
announced  a deep-seated  grievance  against  society,  and  an 
implacable  determination  to  be  avenged.  From  a beetle- 
haunted  kitchen  below  this  institution,  fumes  arose,  sug- 
gestive of  a class  of  soup  which  Mr.  Grazinglands  knew, 
from  painful  experience,  enfeebles  the  mind,  distends  the 
stomach,  forces  itself  into  the  complexion,  and  tries  to 
ooze  out  at  the  eyes.  As  he  decided  against  entering, 
and  turned  away,  Mrs.  Grazinglands  becoming  perceptibly 
weaker,  repeated,  am  rather  faint,  Alexander,  but  don’t 
mind  me.”  Urged  to  new  efforts  by  these  words  of  resig- 
nation, Mr.  Grazinglands  looked  in  at  a cold  and  floury 
baker’s  shop,  where  utilitarian  buns  unrelieved  by  a cur- 
rant, consorted  with  hard  biscuits,  a stone  filter  of  cold 
water,  a hard  pale  clock,  and  a hard  little  old  woman  with 
flaxen  hair,  of  an  undeveloped-farinaceous  aspect,  as  if  she 
had  been  fed  upon  seeds.  He  might  have  entered  even 
here,  but  for  the  timely  remembrance  coming  upon  him 
that  Jairing’s  was  but  round  the  corner. 

Now,  Jairing’s  being  an  hotel  for  families  and  gentle- 
men, in  high  repute  among  the  midland  counties,  Mr. 
Grazinglands  plucked  up  a great  spirit  when  he  told  Mrs. 
Grazinglands  she  should  have  a chop  there.  That  lady, 
likewise  felt  that  she  was  going  to  see  Life.  Arriving  on 
that  gay  and  festive  scene,  they  found  the  second  waiter,  in 
a flabby  undress,  cleaning  the  windows  of  the  empty  coffee- 
room;  and  the  first  waiter,  denuded  of  his  white  tie,  mak- 
ing up  his  cruets  behind  the  Post-Office  Directory.  The 
latter  (who  took  them  in  hand)  was  greatly  put  out  by 
their  patronage,  and  showed  his  mind  to  be  troubled  by  a 
sense  of  the  pressing  necessity  of  instantly  smuggling  Mrs. 
Grazinglands  into  the  obscurest  corner  of  the  building. 
This  slighted  lady  (who  is  the  pride  of  her  division  of  the 
county)  was  immediately  conveyed,  by  several  dark  pas- 
sages, and  up  and  down  several  steps,  into  a penitential 
apartment  at  the  back  of  the  house,  where  five  invalided 


54 


THE  COMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


old  plate- warmers  leaned  up  against  one  another  under  a 
discarded  old  melancholy  sideboard,  and  where  the  wintry 
leaves  of  all  the  dining-tables  in  the  house  lay  thick. 
Also,  a sofa,  of  incomprehensible  form  regarded  from  any 
sofane  point  of  view,  murmured  ^^Bed;’’  while  an  air  of 
mingled  fluffiness  and  heeltaps,  added,  Second  Waiter’s.’^ 
Secreted  in  this  dismal  hold,  objects  of  a mysterious  dis- 
trust and  suspicion,  Mr.  Grazinglands  and  his  charming 
partner  waited  twenty  minutes  for  the  smoke  (for  it  never 
came  to  a fire),  twenty-five  minutes  for  the  sherry,  half  an 
hour  for  the  tablecloth,  forty  minutes  for  the  knives  and 
forks,  three-quarters  of  an  hour  for  the  chops,  and  an  hour 
for  the  potatoes.  On  settling  the  little  bill — which  was  not 
much  more  than  the  day’s  pay  of  a Lieutenant  in  the  navy 
— Mr.  Grazinglands  took  heart  to  remonstrate  against  the 
general  quality  and  cost  of  his  reception.  To  whom  the 
waiter  replied,  substantially,  that  Jairing’s  made  it  a merit 
to  have  accepted  him  on  any  terms:  ^^for,”  added  the 
waiter  (unmistakably  coughing  at  Mrs.  Grazinglands,  the 
pride  of  her  division  of  the  county),  ^^when  indiwiduals  is 
not  staying  in  the  ’Ouse,  their  favours  is  not  as  a rule 
looked  upon  as  making  it  worth  Mr.  Jairing’s  while;  nor 
is  it,  indeed,  a style  of  business  Mr.  Jairing  wishes.” 
Finally,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grazinglands  passed  out  of  Jairing’s 
hotel  for  Families  and  Gentlemen,  in  a state  of  the  greatest 
depression,  scorned  by  the  bar;  and  did  not  recover  their 
self-respect  for  several  days. 

Or  take  another  case.  Take  your  own  case. 

You  are  going  off  by  railway,  from  any  Terminus.  You 
have  twenty  minutes  for  dinner,  before  you  go.  You  want 
your  dinner,  and  like  Dr.  Johnson,  Sir,  you  like  to  dine. 
You  present  to  your  mind,  a picture  of  the  refreshment- 
table  at  that  terminus.  The  conventional  shabby  evening- 
party  supper — accepted  as  the  model  for  all  termini  and  all 
refreshment  stations,  because  it  is  the  last  repast  known 
to  this  state  of  existence  of  which  any  human  creature 
would  partake,  but  in  the  direst  extremity — sickens  your 
contemplation,  and  your  words  are  these : I cannot  dine 

on  stale  sponge-cakes  that  turn  to  sand  in  the  mouth.  I 
cannot  dine  on  shining  brown  patties,  composed  of  un- 
known animals  within,  and  offering  to  my  view  the  device 
of  an  indigestible  star-fish  in  leaden  pie-crust  without.  I 
cannot  dine  on  a sandwich  that  has  long  been  pining  under 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


55 


an  exhausted  receiver.  I cannot  dine  on  barley-sugar.  I 
cannot  dine  on  Toffee.”  You  repair  to  the  nearest  hotel, 
and  arrive,  agitated,  in  the  coffee-room. 

It  is  a most  astonishing  fact  that  the  waiter  is  very  cold 
to  you.  Account  for  it  how  you  may,  smooth  it  over  how 
you  will,  you  cannot  deny  that  he  is  cold  to  you.  He  is 
not  glad  to  see  you,  he  does  not  want  you,  he  would  much 
rather  you  hadn’t  come.  He  opposes  to  your  flushed  con- 
dition, an  immovable  composure.  As  if  this  were  not 
enough,  another  waiter,  born,  as  it  would  seem,  expressly  to 
look  at  you  in  this  passage  of  your  life,  stands  at  a little 
distance,  with  his  napkin  under  his  arm  and  his  hands 
folded,  looking  at  you  with  all  his  might.  You  impress  on 
your  waiter  that  you  have  ten  minutes  for  dinner,  and  he 
proposes  that  you  shall  begin  with  a bit  of  fish  which  will 
be  ready  in  twenty.  That  proposal  declined,  he  suggests — 
as  a neat  originality — a weal  or  mutton  cutlet.  ” You  close 
with  either  cutlet,  any  cutlet,  anything.  He  goes,  leisure- 
ly, behind  a door  and  calls  down  some  unseen  shaft.  A 
ventriloquial  dialogue  ensues,  tending  finally  to  the  effect 
that  weal  only,  is  available  on  the  spur  of  the  moment. 
You  anxiously  call  out,  ^^Veal,  then!”  Your  waiter  hav- 
ing settled  that  point,  returns  to  array  your  tablecloth, 
with  a table  napkin  folded  cocked-hat- wise  (slowly,  for 
soinething  out  of  window  engages  his  eye),  a white  wine- 
glass, a green  wine-glass,  a blue  finger-glass,  a tumbler, 
and  a powerful  field  battery  of  fourteen  castors  with 
nothing  in  them;  or  at  all  events — which  is  enough  for 
your  purpose — with  nothing  in  them  that  will  come  out. 
All  this  time,  the  other  waiter  looks  at  you — with  an  air  of 
mental  comparison  and  curiosity,  now,  as  if  it  had  occurred 
to  him  that  you  are  rather  like  his  brother.  Half  your 
time  gone,  and  nothing  come  but  the  jug  of  ale  and  the 
bread,  you  implore  your  waiter  to  See  after  that  cutlet, 
waiter;  pray  do!  ” He  cannot  go  at  once,  for  he  is  carry- 
ing in  seventeen  pounds  of  American  cheese  for  you  to 
finish  with,  and  a small  Landed  Estate  of  celery  and  water- 
cresses.  The  other  waiter  changes  his  leg,  and  takes  a 
new  view  of  you,  doubtfully,  now,  as  if  he  had  rejected 
the  resemblance  to  his  brother,  and  had  begun  to  think 
you  more  like  his  aunt  or  his  grandmother.  Again  you  be- 
seech your  waiter  with  pathetic  indignation,  to  see  after 
that  cutlet ! ” He  steps  out  to  see  after  it,  and  by-and- 


50 


THE  UKC0?»[MEHCTAL  TEAVELLEH. 


bye,  when  you  are  going  away  without  it,  comes  back  with 
it.  Even  then,  lie  will  not  take  the  sham  silver-cover  off, 
without  a pause  for  a flourish,  and  a look  at  the  musty  cut- 
let as  if  he  were  surprised  to  see  it — which  cannot  possibly 
be  the  case,  he  must  have  seen  it  so  often  before.  A sort 
of  fur  has  been  produced  upon  its  surface  by  the  cook’s 
art,  and  in  a sham  silver  vessel  staggering  on  two  feet  in- 
stead of  three,  is  a cutaneous  kind  of  sauce,  of  brown  pim- 
ples and  pickled  cucumber.  You  order  the  bill,  but  your 
waiter  cannot  bring  your  bill  yet,  because  he  is  bringing, 
instead,  three  flinty-hearted  potatoes  and  two  grim  head  of 
brocoli,  like  the  occasional  ornaments  on  area  railings,  badly 
boiled.  You  know  that  you  will  never  come  to  this  pass, 
any  more  than  to  the  cheese  and  celery,  and  you  impera- 
tively demand  your  bill;  but,  it  takes  time  to  get,  even 
when  gone  for,  because  your  waiter  has  to  communicate 
with  a lady  who  lives  behind  a sash-window  in  a corner, 
and  who  appears  to  have  to  refer  to  several  Ledgers  before 
she  can  make  it  out — as  if  you  had  been  staying  there  a 
year.  You  become  distracted  to  get  away,  and  the  other 
waiter,  once  more  changing  his  leg,  still  looks  at  you — 
but  suspiciously,  now,  as  if  you  had  begun  to  remind  him 
of  the  party  who  took  the  great-coats  last  winter.  Your 
bill  at  last  brought  and  paid,  at  the  rate  of  sixpence  a 
mouthful,  your  waiter  reproachfully  reminds  you  that  at- 
tendance is  not  charged  for  a single  meal,”  and  you  have 
to  search  in  all  your  pockets  for  sixpence  more.  He  has 
a worse  opinion  of  you  than  ever,  when  you  have  given  It 
to  him,  and  lets  you  out  into  the  street  with  the  air  of 
one  saying  to  himself,  as  you  cannot  doubt  he  is,  I hope 
we  shall  never  see  you  here  again ! ” 

Or,  take  any  other  of  the  numerous  travelling  instances 
in  which,  with  more  time  at  your  disposal,  you  are,  have 
been,  or  may  be,  equally  ill  served.  Take  the  old-estab- 
lished Bull’s  Head  with  its  old-established  knife-boxes  on 
its  old-established  sideboards,  its  old-established  flue  under 
its  old-established  four-post  bedsteads  in  its  old-established 
airless  rooms,  its  old-established  frouziness  up-stairs  and 
down-stairs,  its  old-established  cookery,  and  its  old-estab- 
lished principles  of  plunder.  Count  up  your  injuries,  in 
its  side-dishes  of  ailing  sweetbreads  in  white  poultices,  of 
apothecaries’  powders  in  rice  for  curry  of  pale  stewed  bits 
of  calf  ineffectually  relying  for  an  adventitious  interest 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


57 


on  forcemeat  balls.  You  have  had  experience  of  the  old- 
established  BulTs  Head  stringy  fowls,  with  lower  extremi- 
ties like  wooden  legs,  sticking  up  out  of  the  dish;  of  its 
cannibalic  boiled  mutton,  gushing  horribly  among  its  capers, 
when  carved;  of  its  little  dishes  of  pastry — roofs  of  sper- 
maceti ointment,  erected  over  half  an  apple  or  four  goose- 
berries. Well  for  you  if  you  have  yet  forgotten  the  old- 
established  BulPs  Head  fruity  port:  whose  reputation  was 
gained  solely  by  the  old-established  price  the  Bull’s  Head 
put  upon  it,  and  by  the  old-established  air  with  which  the 
Bull’s  Head  set  the  glasses  and  H’Oyleys  on,  and  held  that 
Liquid  Gout  to  the  three-and-sixpenny  wax-candle,  as  if  its 
old-established  colour  hadn’t  come  from  the  dyer’s. 

Or  lastly,  take  to  finish  with,  two  cases  that  we  all  know, 
every  day. 

We  all  know  the  new  hotel  near  the  station,  where  it  is 
always  gusty,  going  up  the  lane  which  is  always  muddy, 
where  we  are  sure  to  arrive  at  night,  and  where  we  make 
the  gas  start  awfully  when  we  open  the  front  door.  We 
all  know  the  flooring  of  the  passages  and  staircases  that  is 
too  new,  and  the  walls  that  are  too  new,  and  the  house 
that  is  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  mortar.  We  all  know  the 
doors  that  have  cracked,  and  the  cracked  shutters  through 
which  we  get  a glimpse  of  the  disconsolate  moon.  We  all 
know  the  new  people,  who  have  come  to  keep  the  new 
hotel,  and  who  wish  they  had  never  come,  and  who  (in- 
evitalDle  result)  wish  we  had  never  come.  We  all  know 
how  much  too  scant  and  smooth  and  bright  the  new  furni- 
ture is,  and  how  it  has  never  settled  down,  and  cannot  fit 
itself  into  right  places,  and  will  get  into  wrong  places. 
We  all  know  how  the  gas,  being  lighted,  shows  maps  of 
Damp  upon  the  walls.  We  all  know  how  the  ghost  of 
mortar  passes  into  our  sandwich,  stirs  our  negus,  goes  up 
to  bed  with  us,  ascends  the  pale  bedroom  chimney,  and  pre- 
vents the  smoke  from  following.  We  all  know  how  a leg 
of  our  chair  comes  otf  at  breakfast  in  the  morning,  and  how 
the  dejected  waiter  attributes  the  accident  to  a general 
greenness  pervading  the  establishment,  and  informs  us,  in 
reply  to  a local  inquiry,  that  he  is  thankful  to  say  he  is  an 
entire  stranger  in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  is  going 
back  to  his  own  connection  on  Saturday. 

We  all  know,  on  the  other  hand,  the  great  station  hotel 
belonging  to  the  company  of  proprietors,  which  has  sud- 


58 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


denly  sprung  up  in  the  back  outskirts  of  any  place  we  like 
to  name,  and  where  we  look  out  of  our  palatial  windows, 
at  little  back  yards  and  gardens,  old  summer-houses,  fowl- 
houses,  pigeon-traps,  and  pigsties.  We  all  know  this  hotel 
in  which  we  can  get  anything  we  want,  after  its  kind,  for 
money;  but  where  nobody  is  glad  to  see  us,  or  sorry  to  see 
us,  or  minds  (our  bill  paid)  whether  we  come  or  go,  or 
how,  or  when,  or  why,  or  cares  about  us.  We  all  know 
this  hotel,  where  we  have  no  individuality,  but  put  our- 
selves into  the  general  post,  as  it  were,  and  are  sorted  and 
disposed  of  according  to  our  division.  We  all  know  that 
we  can  get  on  very  well  indeed  at  such  a place,  but  still 
not  perfectly  well;  and  this  may  be,  because  the  place  is 
largely  wholesale,  and  there  is  a lingering  personal  retail 
interest  within  us  that  asks  to  be  satisfied. 

To  sum  up.  My  uncommercial  travelling  has  not  yet 
brought  me  to  the  conclusion  that  we  are  close  to  perfec- 
tion in  these  matters.  And  just  as  I do  not  believe  that 
the  end  of  the  world  will  ever  be  near  at  hand,  so  long  as 
any  of  the  very  tiresome  and  arrogant  people  who  con- 
stantly predict  that  catastrophe  are  left  in  it,  so,  I shall 
have  small  faith  in  the  Hotel  Millennium,  while  any  of  the 
uncomfortable  superstitions  I have  glanced  at  remain  in 
existence. 


VII. 

TRAVELLING  ABROAD. 

I GOT  into  the  travelling  chariot — it  was  of  German 
make,  roomy,  heavy,  and  unvarnished — I got  into  the 
travelling  chariot,  pulled  up  the  steps  after  me,  shut  my- 
self in  with  a smart  bang  of  the  door,  and  gave  the  word. 
Go  on!’^ 

Immediately,  all  that  W.  and  S.  W.  division  of  London 
began  to  slide  away  at  a pace  so  lively,  that  I was  over  the 
river,  and  past  the  Old  Kent  Road,  and  out  on  Blackheath, 
and  even  ascending  Shooter’s  Hill,  before  I had  had  time 
to  look  about  me  in  the  carriage,  like  a collected  traveller. 

I had  two  ample  Imperials  on  tlie  roof,  other  fitted  stor- 
age for  luggage  in  front,  and  other  up  behind;  I had  a net 
for  books  overhead,  great  pockets  to  all  the  windows,  a 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


59 


leathern  pouch  or  two  hung  up  for  odds  and  ends,  and  a 
reading  lamp  fixed  in  the  back  of  the  chariot,  in  case  I 
should  be  benighted.  I was  amply  provided  in  all  respects, 
and  had  no  idea  where  I was  going  (which  was  delightful), 
except  that  I was  going  abroad. 

So  smooth  was  the  old  high  road,  and  so  fresh  were  the 
horses,  and  so  fast  went  I,  that  it  was  midway  between 
Gravesend  and  Rochester,  and  the  widening  river  was 
bearing  the  ships,  white-sailed  or  black-smoked,  out  to  sea, 
when  I noticed  by  the  wayside  a very  queer  small  boy. 

Holloa ! said  I,  to  the  very  queer  small  boy,  where 
do  you  live?  ” 

At  Chatham,’^  says  he. 

“ What  do  you  do  there?  ” says  I. 
go  to  school,^’  says  he. 

I took  him  up  in  a moment,  and  we  went  on.  Presently, 
the  very  queer  small  boy  says,  This  is  Gads-hill  we  are 
coming  to,  where  Falstaff  went  out  to  rob  those  travellers, 
and  ran  away.^^ 

You  know  something  about  Falstaff,  eh?  said  I. 

All  about  him,”  said  the  very  queer  small  boy.  I am 
old  (I  am  nine),  and  I read  all  sorts  of  books.  But  do  let 
us  stop  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  look  at  the  house  there, 
if  you  please ! ” 

You  admire  that  house?  ” said  I. 

Bless  you,  sir,”  said  the  very  queer  small  boy,  ^^when 
I was  not  more  than  half  as  old  as  nine,  it  used  to  be  a 
treat  for  me  to  be  brought  to  look  at  it.  And  now,  I am 
nine,  I come  by  myself  to  look  at  it.  And  ever  since  I can 
recollect,  my  father,  seeing  me  so  fond  of  it,  has  often  said 
to  me,  ‘ If  you  were  to  be  very  persevering  and  were  to 
work  hard,  you  might  some  day  come  to  live  in  it.’ 
Though  that’s  impossible ! ” said  the  very  queer  small  boy, 
drawing  a low  breath,  and  now  staring  at  the  house  out  of 
window  with  all  his  might. 

I was  rather  amazed  to  be  told  this  by  the  very  queer 
small  boy;  for  that  house  happens  to  be  my  house,  and  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  what  he  said  was  true. 

Well ! I made  no  halt  there,  and  I soon  dropped  the  very 
queer  small  boy  and  went  on.  Over  the  road  where  the 
old  Romans  used  to  march,  over  the  road  where  the  old 
Canterbury  pilgrims  used  to  go,  over  the  road  where  the 
travelling  trains  of  the  old  imperious  priests  and  princes  used 


60 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


to  jingle  on  horseback  between  the  continent  and  this 
Island  through  the  mud  and  water,  over  the  road  where 
Shakespeare  hummed  to  himself,  Blow,  blow,  thou  win- 
ter wind,’’  as  he  sat  in  the  saddle  at  the  gate  of  the  inn 
yard  noticing  the  carriers;  all  among  the  cherry  orchards, 
apple  orchards,  cornfields  and  hop-gardens;  so  went  I,  by 
Canterbury  to  Dover.  There,  the  sea  was  tumbling  in, 
with  deep  sounds,  after  dark,  and  the  revolving  French 
light  on  Cape  Grinez  was  seen  regularly  bursting  out  and 
becoming  obscured,  as  if  the  head  of  a gigantic  light-keeper 
in  an  anxious  state  of  mind  were  interposed  every  half 
minute,  to  look  how  it  was  burning. 

Early  in  the  morning  I was  on  the  deck  of  the  steam- 
packet,  and  we  were  aiming  at  the  bar  in  the  usual  intoler- 
able manner,  and  the  bar  was  aiming  at  us  in  the  usual  in- 
tolerable manner,  and  the  bar  got  by  far  the  best  of  it,  and 
we  got  by  far  the  worst — all  in  the  usual  intolerable  man- 
ner. 

But,  when  I was  clear  of  the  Custom  House  on  the  other 
side,  and  when  I began  to  make  the  dust  fly  on  the  thirsty 
French  roads,  and  when  the  twigsome  trees  by  the  wayside 
(which,  I suppose,  never  will  grow  leafy,  for  they  never 
did)  guarded  here  and  there  a dusty  soldier,  or  field  la- 
bourer, baking  on  a heap  of  broken  stones,  sound  asleep  in 
a fiction  of  shade,  I began  to  recover  my  travelling  spirits. 
Coming  upon  the  breaker  of  the  broken  stones,  in  a hard 
hot  shining  hat,  on  which  the  sun  played  at  a distance  as 
on  a burning-glass,  I felt  that  now,  indeed,  I was  in  the 
dear  old  France  of  my  affections.  I should  have  known  it, 
without  the  well-remembered  bottle  of  rough  ordinary  wine, 
the  cold  roast  fowl,  the  loaf,  and  the  pinch  of  salt,  on 
which  I lunched  with  unspeakable  satisfaction,  from  one 
of  the  stuffed  pockets  of  the  chariot. 

I must  have  fallen  asleep  after  lunch,  for  when  a bright 
face  looked  in  at  the  window,  I started,  and  said: 

^^Good  God,  Louis,  I dreamed  you  were  dead!” 

My  cheerful  servant  laughed,  and  answered : 

‘^Me?  Not  at  all,  sir.” 

How  glad  I am  to  wake ! What  are  we  doing,  Louis?  ” 
We  go  to  take  relay  of  horses.  Will  you  walk  up  the 
hill?  ” 

Certainly.” 

Welcome  the  old  French  hill,  with  the  old  French  luna- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  61 

tic  (not  in  the  most  distant  degree  related  to  Sterne’s 
Maria)  living  in  a thatched  dog-kennel  half  way  up,  and 
out  with  his  crutch  and  his  big  head  and  extended 
nightcap,  to  be  beforehand  with  the  old  men  and  women 
exhibiting  crippled  children,  and  with  the  children  exhib- 
iting old  men  and  women,  ugly  and  blind,  who  always 
seemed  by  resurrectionary  process  to  be  recalled  out  of  the 
elements  for  the  sudden  peopling  of  the  solitude! 

''It  is  well,”  said  I,  scattering  among  them  what  small 
com  I had;  "here  comes  Louis,  and  I am  quite  roused  from 
my  nap.” 

We  journeyed  on  again,  and  I welcomed  every  new  as- 
surance that  France  stood  where  I had  left  it.  There  were 
the  posting-houses,  with  their  archways,  dirty  stable-yards, 
and  clean  post-masters’  wives,  bright  women  of  business, 
looking  on  at  the  putting- to  of  the  horses;  there  were  the 
postilions  counting  what  money  they  got,  into  their  hats, 
and  never  making  enough  of  it;  there  were  the  standard 
population  of  grey  horses  of  Flanders  descent,  invariably 
biting  one  another  when  they  got  a chance;  there  were  the 
neecy  sheepskins,  looped  on  over  their  uniforms  by  the 
postilions,  like  bibbed  aprons  when  it  blew  and  rained* 
jhere  were  their  jack-boots,  and  their  cracking  whips* 
;here  were  the  cathedrals  that  I got  out  to  see,  as  under 
iome  cruel  bondage,  in  no  wise  desiring  to  see  them;  there 
vere  the  little  towns  that  appeared  to  have  no  reason  for 
leing  towns,  since  most  of  their  houses  were  to  let  and  iio- 
)ody  could  be  induced  to  look  at  them,  except  the  people 
vho  couldn’t  let  them  and  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  look 
it  them  all  day.  I lay  a night  upon  the  road  and  enjoyed 
lelectable  cookery  of  potatoes,  and  some  other  sensible 
hings,  adoption  of  which  at  home  would  inevitably  be 
hown  to  be  fraught  with  ruin,  somehow  or  other,  to  that 
ickety  national  blessing,  the  British  farmer;  and  at  last 
was  rattled,  like  a single  pill  in  a box,  over  leagues  of 
tones,  until— madly  cracking,  plunging,  and  flourishing 
wo  g^y  tails  about — I made  my  triumphal  entry  into  Paris. 
At  Ba,ris,  I took  an  upper  apartment  for  a few  days  in 
ne  of  the  hotels  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli;  my  front  windows 
Hiking  mto  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries  (where  the  prin- 
^pal  difference  between  the  nursemaids  and  the  flowers 
3emed  to  be  that  the  former  were  locomotive  and  the  lat- 
*r  not) ; my  back  windows  looking  at  all  the  other  back 


02  'J HE  UNCOMMEIICIAL  TRAVELLER. 

windows  in  the  hotel,  and  deep  down  into  a paved  yard, 
where  my  German  chariot  had  retired  under  a tight-fitting 
archway,  to  all  appearance  for  life,  and  where  bells  rang  all 
day  without  anybody’s  minding  them  but  certain  chamber- 
lains with  feather  brooms  and  green  baize  caps,  who  here 
and  there  leaned  out  of  some  high  window  placidly  looking 
down,  and  where  neat  waiters  with  trays  on  their  left 
shoulders  passed  and  repassed  from  morning  to  night. 

Whenever  I am  in  Paris,  I am  dragged  by  invisible  force 
into  the  Morgue.  I never  want  to  go  there,  but  am  always 
pulled  there.  One  Christmas  Day,  when  I would  rather 
have  been  anywhere  else,  I was  attracted  in,  to  see  an  old 
grey  man  lying  all  alone  on  his  cold  bed,  with  a tap  of 
water  turned  on  over  his  grey  hair,  and  running,  drip,  drip, 
drip,  down  his  wretched  face  until  it  got  to  the  corner  of 
his  mouth,  where  it  took  a turn,  and  made  him  look  sly. 
One  New  Year’s  Morning  (by  the  same  token,  the  sun  was 
shining  outside,'  and  there  was  a mountebank  balancing  a 
feather  on  his  nose,  within  a yard  of  the  gate),  I was 
pulled  in  again  to  look  at  a flaxen-haired  boy  of  eighteen, 
with  a heart  hanging  on  his  breast--“  from  his  mother,” 
was  engraven  on  it — who  had  come  into  the  net  across  the 
river,  with  a bullet  wound  in  his  fair  forehead  and  his 
hands  cut  with  a knife,  but  whence  or  how  was  a blank 
mystery.  This  time,  I was  forced  into  the  same  dread 
place,  to  see  a large  dark  man  whose  disfigurement  by 
water  was  in  a frightful  manner,  comic,  and  rvhose  expres- 
sion was  that  of  a prize-fighter  who  had  closed  his  eyelids 
under  a heavy  blow,  but  was  going  immediately  to  open 
them,  shake  his  head,  and  “ come  up  smiling.”  Oh  what 
this  large  dark  man  cost  me  in  that  bright  city ! 

It  was  very  hot  weather,  and  he  was  none  the  better  for 
that,  and  I-  was  much  the  worse.  Indeed,  a very  neat  and 
pleasant  little  woman  with  the  key  of  her  lodging  on  her 
forefinger,  who  had  been  showing  him  to  her  little  girl 
while  she  and  the  child  ate  sweetmeats,  observed  monsieur 
looking  poorly  as  we  came  out  together,  and  asked  mon- 
sieur, with  her  wondering  little  eyebrows  prettily  raised, 
if  there  were  anything  the  matter?  Faintly  replying  in  the 
negative,  monsieur  crossed  the  road  to  a wine-shop,  got 
some  brandy,  and  resolved  to  freshen  himself  with  a dij* 
in  the  great  floating  bath  on  the  river. 

The  bath  was  crowded  in  the  usual  airy  manner,  by  a 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


63 


male  population  in  striped  drawers  of  various  gay  colours, 
who  walked  up  and  down  arm  in  arm,  drank  coffee,  smoked 
cigars,  sat  at  little  tables,  conversed  politely  with  the  dam- 
sels who  dispensed  the  towels,  and  every  now  and  then 
pitched  themselves  into  the  river  head  foremost,  and  came 
out  again  to  repeat  this  social  routine.  I made  haste  to 
participate  in  the  water  part  of  the  entertainments,  and 
was  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  a delightful  bath,  when  all  in 
a moment  I was  seized  with  an  unreasonable  idea  that  the 
large  dark  body  was  floating  straight  at  me. 

I was  out  of  the  river,  and  dressing  instantly.  In  the 
shock  I had  taken  some  water  into  my  mouth,  and  it  turned 
me  sick,  for  I fancied  that  the  contamination  of  the  crea- 
ture was  in  it.  I had  got  back  to  my  cool  darkened  room 
in  the  hotel,  and  was  lying  on  a sofa  there,  before  I began 
to  reason  with  myself. 

Of  course,  I knew  perfectly  well  that  the  large  dark 
creature  was  stone  dead,  and  that  I should  no  more  come 
upon  him  out  of  the  place  where  I had  seen  him  dead,  than 
I should  come  upon  the  cathedral  of  Notre-Dame  in  an 
entirely  new  situation.  What  troubled  me  was  the  picture 
of  the  creature;  and  that  had  so  curiously  and  strongly 
painted  itself  upon  my  brain,  that  I could  not  get  rid  of  it 
until  it  was  worn  out. 

I noticed  the  peculiarities  of  this  possession,  while  it  was 
a real  discomfort  to  me.  That  very  day,  at  dinner,  some 
morsel  on  my  plate  looked  like  a piece  of  him,  and  I was 
glad  to  get  up  and  go  out.  Later  in  the  evening,  I was 
walking  along  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  when  I saw  a bill  at  a 
public  room  there,  announcing  small-sword  exercise,  broad- 
sword exercise,  wrestling,  and  other  such  feats.  I went 
in,  and  some  of  the  sword-play  being  very  skilful,  re- 
mained. A specimen  of  our  own  national  sport.  The  Brit- 
ish Boaxe,  was  announced  to  be  given  at  the  close  of  the 
evening.  In  an  evil  hour,  I determined  to  wait  for  this 
Boaxe,  as  became  a Briton.  It  was  a clumsy  specimen  (ex- 
ecuted by  two  English  grooms  out  of  place),  but  one  of  the 
combatants,  receiving  a straight  right-hander  with  the 
glove  between  his  eyes,  did  exactly  what  the  large  dark 
creature  in  the  Morgue  had  seemed  going  to  do — and  fin- 
ished me  for  that  night. 

There  was  rather  a sickly  smell  (not  at  all  an  unusual 
fragrance  in  Paris)  in  the  little  ante-room  of  my  apartment 


64 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


at  the  hotel.  The  large  dark  creature  in  the  Morgue  was 
by  no  direct  experience  associated  with  my  sense  of  smell, 
because,  when  I came  to  the  knowledge  of  him,  he  lay  be- 
hind a wall  of  thick  plate-glass  as  good  as  a wall  of  steel  or 
marble  for  that  matter.  Yet  the  whiff  of  the  room  never 
failed  to  reproduce  him.  What  was  more  curious,  was  the 
capriciousness  with  which  his  portrait  seemed  to  light  it- 
self up  in  my  mind,  elsewhere.  I might  be  walking  in  the 
Palais  Eoyal,  lazily  enjoying  the  shop  windows,  and  might 
be  regaling  myself  with  one  of  the  ready-made  clothes 
shops  that  are  set  out  there.  My  eyes,  wandering  over  im- 
possible-waisted  dressing-gowns  and  luminous  waistcoats, 
would  fall  upon  the  master,  or  the  shopman,  or  even  the 
very  dummy  at  the  door,  and  would  suggest  to  me,  Some- 
thing like  him!  and  instantly  I was  sickened  again. 

This  would  happen  at  the  theatre,  in  the  same  manner. 
Often  it  would  happen  in  the  street,  when  I certainly  was 
not  looking  for  the  likeness,  and  when  probably  there  was 
no  likeness  there.  It  was  not  because  the  creature  was 
dead  that  I was  so  haunted,  because  I know  that  I might 
have  been  (and  I know  it  because  I have  been)  equally 
attended  by  the  image  of  a living  aversion.  This  lasted 
about  a week.  The  picture  did  not  fade  by  degrees,  in  the 
sense  that  it  became  a whit  less  forcible  and  distinct,  but 
in  the  sense  that  it  obtruded  itself  less  and  less  frequently. 
The  experience  may  be  worth  considering  by  some  who 
have  the  care  of  children.  It  would  be  difficult  to  over- 
state the  intensity  and  accuracy  of  an  intelligent  child’s  ob- 
servation. At  that  impressible  time  of  life,  it  must  some- 
times produce  a fixed  impression.  If  the  fixed  impression 
be  of  an  object  terrible  to  the  child,  it  will  be  (for  want  of 
reasoning  upon)  inseparable  from  great  fear.  Force  the 
child  at  such  a time,  be  Spartan  with  it,  send  it  into  the 
dark  against  its  will,  leave  it  in  a lonely  bedroom  against 
its  will,  and  you  had  better  murder  it. 

On  a bright  morning  I rattled  away  from  Paris,  in  the 
German  chariot,  and  left  the  large  dark  creature  behind 
me  for  good.  I ought  to  confess,  though,  that  I had  been 
drawn  back  to  the  Morgue,  after  he  was  put  underground, 
to  look  at  his  clothes,  and  that  I found  them  frightfull}’' 
like  him — particularly  his  boots.  However,  I rattled  away 
for  Switzerland,  looking  forward  and  not  backward,  and  so 
we  parted  company. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


65 


Welcome  again,  the  long  long  spell  of  France,  with  the 
queer  country  inns,  full  of  vases  of  flowers  and  clocks,  in 
the  dull  little  towns,  and  with  the  little  population  not  at 
all  dull  on  the  little  Boulevard  in  the  evening,  under  the 
little  trees!  Welcome  Monsieur  the  Cure  walking  alone 
in  the  early  morning  a short  way  out  of  the  town,  read- 
ing that  eternal  Breviary  of  yours,  which  surely  might  be 
almost  read,  without  book,  by  this  time  1 Welcome  Mon- 
sieur the  Cure,  later  in  the  day,  jolting  through  the  high- 
way dust  (as  if  you  had  already  ascended  to  the  cloudy 
region),  in  a very  big-headed  cabriolet,  with  the  dried  mud 
of  a dozen  winters  on  it.  Welcome  again  Monsieur  the 
Cure,  as  we  exchange  salutations;  you,  straightening  your 
back  to  look  at  the  German  chariot,  while  picking  in  your 
little  village  garden  a vegetable  or  two  for  the  day’s  soup : 
I,  looking  out  of  the  German  chariot  window  in  that  de- 
licious traveller’s  trance  which  knows  no  cares,  no  yester- 
days, no  to-morrows,  nothing  but  the  passing  objects  and 
the  passing  scents  and  sounds!  And  so  I came,  in  due 
course  of  delight,  to  Strasbourg,  where  I passed  a wet  Sun- 
day evening  at  a window,  while  an  idle  trifle  of  a vaude- 
ville was  played  for  me  at  the  opposite  house. 

How  such  a large  house  came  to  have  only  three  people 
living  in  it,  was  its  own  affair.  There  were  at  least  a score 
of  windows  in  its  high  roof  alone;  how  many  in  its  gro- 
tesque front,  I soon  gave  up  counting.  The  owner  was  a 
shopkeeper,  by  name  Straudenheim;  by  trade — I couldn’t 
make  out  what  by  trade,  for  he  had  forborne  to  write  that 
up,  and  his  shop  was  shut. 

At  first,  as  I looked  at  Straudenheim ’s,  through  the 
steadily  falling  rain,  I set  him  up  in  business  in  the  goose- 
liver  line.  But,  inspection  of  Straudenheim,  who  became 
visible  at  a window  on  the  second  floor,  convinced  me  that 
there  was  something  more  precious  than  liver  in  the  case. 
He  wore  a black  velvet  skull-cap,  and  looked  usurious  and 
rich.  A large-lipped,  pear-nosed  old  man,  with  white  hair, 
and  keen  eyes,  though  near-sighted.  He  was  writing  at  a 
desk,  was  Straudenheim,  and  ever  and  again  left  off  writ- 
ing, put  his  pen  in  his  mouth,  and  went  through  actions 
with  his  right  hand,  like  a man  steadying  piles  of  cash. 
Five-franc  pieces,  Straudenheim,  or  golden  Napoleons?  A 
jeweller,  Straudenheim,  a dealer  in  money,  a diamond  mer- 
chant, or  what? 

5 


66 


I'lIE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Below  Straudenheim,  at  a window  on  the  first  floor,  sat 
his  housekeeper — far  from  young,  but  of  a comely  pres- 
ence, suggestive  of  a well-matured  foot  and  ankle.  She 
was  cheerily  dressed,  had  a fan  in  her  hand,  and  wore 
large  gold  earrings  and  a large  gold  cross.  She  would  have 
been  out  holiday-making  (as  I settled  it)  but  for  the  pesti- 
lent rain.  Strasbourg  had  given  up  holiday-making  for 
that  once,  as  a bad  job,  because  the  rain  was  jerking  in 
gushes  out  of  the  old  roof-spouts,  and  running  in  a brook 
down  the  middle  of  the  street.  The  housekeeper,  her  arms 
folded  on  her  bosom  and  her  fan  tapping  her  chin,  was 
bright  and  smiling  at  her  open  window,  but  otherwise 
Straudenheim ’s  house  front  was  very  dreary.  The  house- 
keeper’s was  the  only  open  window  in  it;  Straudenheim 
kept  himself  close,  though  it  was  a sultry  evening  when 
air  is  pleasant,  and  though  the  rain  had  brought  into  the 
town  that  vague  refreshing  smell  of  grass  which  rain  does 
bring  in  the  summer-time. 

The  dim  appearance  of  a man  at  Straudenheim ’s  shoul- 
der, inspired  me  with  a misgiving  that  somebody  had  come 
to  murder  that  flourishing  merchant  for  the  wealth  with 
which  I had  handsomely  endowed  him : the  rather,  as  it 
was  an  excited  man,  lean  and  long  of  figure,  and  evidently 
stealthy  of  foot.  But,  he  conferred  with  Straudenheim  in- 
stead of  doing  him  a mortal  injury,  and  then  they  both 
softly  opened  the  other  window  of  that  room — which  was 
immediately  over  the  housekeeper’s — and  tried  to  see  her 
by  looking  down.  And  my  opinion  of  Straudenheim  was 
much  lowered  when  I saw  that  eminent  citizen  spit  out  of 
window,  clearly  with  the  hope  of  spitting  on  the  house- 
keeper. 

The  unconscious  housekeeper  fanned  herself,  tossed  her 
head,  and  laughed.  Though  unconscious  of  Straudenheim, 
she  was  conscious  of  somebody  else — of  me? — there  was 
nobody  else. 

After  leaning  so  far  out  of  the  window,  that  I confidently 
expected  to  see  their  heels  tilt  up,  Straudenheim  and  the 
lean  man  drew  their  heads  in  and  shut  the  window.  Pres- 
ently, the  house  door  secretly  opened,  and  they  slowly  and 
spitefully  crept  forth  into  the  pouring  rain.  Tliey  were 
coming  over-  to  me  (I  thought)  to  demand  satisfaction  for 
my  looking  at  the  housekeeper,  when  they  plunged  into  a 
recess  in  the  architecture  under  my  window  and  dragged 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


67 


out  the  puniest  of  little  soldiers,  begirt  with  the  most  in- 
nocent of  little  swords.  The  tall  glazed  head-dress  of  this 
warrior,  Straudenheim  instantly  knocked  off,  and  out  of  it 
fell  two  sugar-sticks,  and  three  or  four  large  lumps  of  sugar. 

The  warrior  made  no  effort  to  recover  his  property  or  to 
pick  up  his  shako,  but  looked  with  an  expression  of  atten- 
tion at  Straudenheim  when  he  kicked  him  five  times,  and 
also  at  the  lean  man  when  he  kicked  him  five  times,  and 
again  at  Straudenheim  when  he  tore  the  breast  of  his  (the 
warrior^s)  little  coat  open,  and  shook  all  his  ten  fingers  in 
his  face,  as  if  they  were  ten  thousand.  When  these  out- 
rages had  been  committed,  Straudenheim  and  his  man  went 
into  the  house  again  and  barred  the  door.  A wonderful 
circumstance  was,  that  the  housekeeper  who  saw  it  all  (and 
who  could  have  taken  six  such  warriors  to  her  buxom  bosom 
at  once),  only  fanned  herself  and  laughed  as  she  had 
laughed  before,  and  seemed  to  have  no  opinion  about  it, 
one  way  or  other. 

But,  the  chief  effect  of  the  drama  was  the  remarkable 
vengeance  taken  by  the  little  warrior.  Left  alone  in  the 
rain,  he  picked  up  his  shako;  put  it  on,  all  wet  and  dirty 
as  it  was;  retired  into  a court,  of  which  Straudenheim ’s 
house  formed  the  corner;  wheeled  about;  and  bringing  his 
two  forefingers  close  to  the  top  of  his  nose,  rubbed  them 
over  one  another,  crosswise,  in  derision,,  defiance,  and  con- 
tempt of  Straudenheim.  Although  Straudenheim  could  not 
possibly  be  supposed  to  be  conscious  of  this  strange  pro- 
ceeding, it  so  inflated  and  comforted  the  little  warrior’s 
soul,  that  twice  he  went  away,  and  twice  came  back  into 
the  court  to  repeat  it,  as  though  it  must  goad  his  enemy  to 
madness.  Not  only  that,  but  he  afterwards  came  back 
with  two  other  small  warriors,  and  they  all  three  did  it  to- 
gether. Not  only  that — as  I live  to  tell  the  tale ! — but  just 
as  it  was  falling  quite  dark,  the  three  came  back,  bringing 
with  them  a huge  bearded  Sapper,  whom  they  moved,  by 
recital  of  the  original  wrong,  to  go  through  the  same  per- 
formance, with  the  same  complete  absence  of  all  possible 
knowledge  of  it  on  the  part  of  Straudenheim.  And  then 
they  all  went  away,  arm  in  arm,  singing. 

I went  away  too,  in  the  German  chariot  at  sunrise,  and 
rattled  on,  day  after  day,  like  one  in  a sweet  dream;  with 
so  many  clear  little  bells  on  the  harness  of  the  horses,  that 
the  nursery  rhyme  about  Banbury  Cross  and  the  venerable 


68 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


lady  who  rode  in  state  there,  was  always  in  my  ears.  And 
now  I came  to  the  land  of  wooden  houses,  innocent  cakes, 
thin  butter  soup,  and  spotless  little  inn  bedrooms  with  a 
family  likeness  to  Dairies.  And  now  the  Swiss  marksmen 
were  for  ever  rifle-shooting  at  marks  across  gorges,  so  ex- 
ceedingly near  my  ear,  that  I felt  like  a new  Gesler  in  a 
Canton  of  Tells,  and  went  in  highly-deserved  danger  of 
my  tyrannical  life.  The  prizes  at  these  shootings,  were 
watches,  smart  handkerchiefs,  hats,  spoons,  and  (above  all) 
tea-trays;  and  at  these  contests  I came  upon  a more  than 
usually  accomplished  and  amiable  countryman  of  my  own, 
who  had  shot  himself  deaf  in  whole  years  of  competition, 
and  had  won  so  many  tea-trays  that  he  went  about  the 
country  with  his  carriage  full  of  them,  like  a glorified 
Cheap-Jack. 

In  the  mountain-country  into  which  I had  now  travelled, 
a yoke  of  oxen  were  sometimes  hooked  on  before  the  post- 
horses,  and  I went  lumbering  up,  up,  up,  through  mist  and 
rain,  with  the  roar  of  falling  water  for  change  of  music. 
Of  a sudden,  mist  and  rain  would  clear  away,  and  I would 
come  down  into  picturesque  little  towns  with  gleaming 
spires  and  odd  towers;  and  would  stroll  afoot  into  market- 
places in  steep  winding  streets,  where  a hundred  women  in 
bodices,  sold  eggs  and  honey,  butter  and  fruit,  and  suckled 
their  children  as  they  sat  by  their  clean  baskets,  and  had 
such  enormous  goitres  (or  glandular  swellings  in  the  throat) 
that  it  became  a science  to  know  where  the  nurse  ended  and 
the  cliild  began.  About  this  time,  I deserted  my  German 
chariot  for  the  back  of  a mule  (in  colour  and  consistency  so 
very  like  a dusty  old  hair  trunk  I once  had  at  school,  that 
I half-expected  to  see  my  initials  in  brass-headed  nails  on 
his  backbone),  and  went  up  a thousand  rugged  ways,  and 
looked  down  at  a thousand  woods  of  fir  and  pine,  and  would 
on  the  whole  have  preferred  my  mule’s  keeping  a little 
nearer  to  the  inside,  and  not  usually  travelling  with  a hoof 
or  two  over  the  precipice — though  much  consoled  by  ex- 
planation that  this  was  to  be  attributed  to  his  great  sagac- 
ity, by  reason  of  his  carrying  broad  loads  of  wood  at  other 
times,  and  not  being  clear  but  that  I myself  belonged  to 
that  station  of  life,  and  required  as  much  room  as  they. 
He  brought  me  safely,  in  his  own  wise  way,  among  the 
passes  of  the  Alps,  and  here  I enjoyed  a dozen  climates  a 
day;  being  now  (like  Don  Quixote  on  the  back  of  tlie 


THE  uncommercial  TRAVELLER.  G9 

wooden  horse)  in  the  region  of  wind,  now  in  the  region  of 
hre,  now  in  the  region  of  unmelting  ice  and  snow.  Hei’e, 
I passed  over  trembling  domes  of  ice,  beneath  which  the 
cataract  was  roaring;  and  here  was  received  under  arches 
of  icicles,  of  unspeakable  beauty;  and  here  the  sweet  air 
was  so  bracing  and  so  light,  that  at  halting-times  I rolled 
in  the  snow  when  I saw  my  mule  do  it,  thinking  that  he 
must  know  best.  At  this  part  of  the  journey  we  would 
come,  at  midday,  into  half  an  hour’s  thaw : when  the  rough 
mountain  inn  would  be  found  on  an  island  of  deep  mud  in 
a sea  of  snow,  while  the  baiting  strings  of  mules,  and  the 
carts  full  of  casks  and  bales,  which  had  been  in  an  Arctic 
condition  a mile  off,  would  steam  again.  By  such  ways 
and  means,  I would  come  to  the  cluster  of  chalets  where  I 
had  to  turn  out  of  the  track  to  see  the  waterfall;  and  then, 
uttering  a howl  like  a young  giant,  on  espying  a traveller 
— in  other  words,  something  to  eat— coming  up  the  steep, 
the  idiot  lying  on  the  wood-pile  who  sunned  himself  and 
nursed  his  goitre,  would  rouse  the  woman-guide  within  the 
hut,  who  would  stream  out  hastily,  throwing  her  child  over 
one  of  her  shoulders  and  her  goitre  over  the  other,  as  she 
came  along.  I slept  at  religious  houses,  and  bleak  refuges 
of  many  kinds,  on  this  journey,  and  by  the  stove  at  night 
heard  stories  of  travellers  who  had  perished  within  call,  in 
wreaths  and  drifts  of  snow.  One  night  the  stove  within, 
and  the  cold  outside,  awakened  childish  associations  long 
forgotten,  and  I dreamed  I was  in  Russia — the  identical 
serf  out  of  a picture-book  I had,  before  I could  read  it  for 
myself — and  that  I was  going  to  be  knouted  by  a noble 
personage  in  a fur  cap,  boots,  and  earrings,  who,  I think, 
must  have  come  out  of  some  melodrama. 

Commend  me  to  the  beautiful  waters  among  these  moun- 
tains ! Though  I was  not  of  their  mind : they,  being  in- 
veterately  bent  on  gettingdown  into  the  level  country,  and 
I ardently  desiring  to  linger  where  I was.  What  desperate 
leaps  they  took,  what  dark  abysses  they  plunged  into,  what 
rocks  they  wore  away,  what  echoes  they  invoked ! In  one 
part  where  I went,  they  were  pressed  into  the  service  of 
carrying  wood^down,  to  be  burnt  next  winter,  as  costly 
fuel,  in  Italy.  But,  their  fierce  savage  nature  was  not  to 
be  easily  constrained,  and  they  fought  with  every  limb  of 
the  wood;  whirling  it  round  and  round,  stripping  its  bark 
away,  dashing  it  against  pointed  corners,  driving  it  out  of 


70 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


the  course,  and  roaring  and  flying  at  the  peasants  who 
steered  it  back  again  from  the  bank  with  long  stout  poles. 
Alas!  concurrent  streams  of  time  and  water  carried  me 
down  fast,  and  I came,  on  an  exquisitely  clear  day,  to  the 
Lausanne  shore  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva,  where  I stood  look- 
ing at  the  bright  blue  water,  the  flushed  white  mountains 
opposite,  and  the  boats  at  my  feet  with  their  furled  Medi- 
terranean sails,  showing  like  enormous  magnificattons  of 
this  goose-quill  pen  that  is  now  in  my  hand. 

— The  sky  became  overcast  without  any  notice;  a wind 
very  like  the  March  east  wind  of  England,  blew  across  me; 
and  a voice  said,  How  do  you  like  it?  Will  it  do?  ’’ 

I had  merely  shut  myself,  for  half  a minute,  in  a Ger- 
man travelling  chariot  that  stood  for  sale  in  the  Carriage 
Department  of  the  London  Pantechnicon.  I had  a commis- 
sion to  buy  it,  for  a friend  who  was  going  abroad;  and  the 
look  and  manner  of  the  chariot,  as  I tried  the  cushions  and 
the  springs,  brought  all  these  hints  of  travelling  remem- 
brance before  me. 

^^It  will  do  very  well,”  said  I,  rather  sorrowfully,  as  I 
got  out  at  the  other  door,  and  shut  the  carriage  up. 


VIII. 

THE  GREAT  TASMANIA’S  CARGO. 

I TRAVEL  constantly,  up  and  down  a certain  line  of  rail- 
way that  has  a terminus  in  London.  It  is  the  railway  for 
a large  military  depot,  and  for  other  large  barracks.  To 
the  best  of  my  serious  belief,  I have  never  been  on  that 
railway  by  daylight,  without  seeing  some  handcuffed  de- 
serters in  the  train. 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  things  that  such  an  institution  as 
our  English  army  should  have  many  bad  and  troublesome 
characters  in  it.  But,  this  is  a reason  for,  and  not  against, 
its  being  made  as  acceptable  as  possible  to  well-disposed 
men  of  decent  behaviour.  Such  men  are  assuredly  not 
tempted  into  the  ranks,  by  the  beastly  inversion  of  natural 
laws,  and  the  compulsion  to  live  in  worse  than  swinish 
foulness.  Accordingly,  when  any  such  Circumlocutional 
embellishments  of  the  soldier’s  condition  have  of  late  been 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


71 


brought  to  notice,  we  civilians,  seated  in  outer  darkness 
cheerfully  meditating  on  an  Income  Tax,  have  considered 
the  matter  as  being  our  business,  and  have  shown  a tend- 
ency to  declare  that  we  would  rather  not  have  it  misregu- 
lated,  if  such  declaration  may,  without  violence  to  the 
Church  Catechism,  be  hinted  to  those  who  are  put  in  au- 
thority over  us. 

Any  animated  description  of  a modern  battle,  any  pri- 
vate soldier’s  letter  published  in  the  newspapers,  any  page 
of  the  records  of  the  Victoria  Cross,  will  show  that  in  the 
ranks  of  the  army,  there  exists  under  all  disadvantages  as 
fine  a sense  of  duty  as  is  to  be  found  in  any  station  on 
earth.  Who  doubts  that  if  we  all  did  our  duty  as  faith- 
fully as  the  soldier  does  his,  this  world  would  be  a better 
place?  There  may  be  greater  difficulties  in  our  way  than 
in  the  soldier’s.  Not  disputed.  But,  let  us  at  least  do 
our  duty  towards  him, 

I had  got  back  again  to  that  rich  and  beautiful  port 
where  I had  looked  after  Mercantile  Jack,  and  I was  walk- 
ing up  a hill  there,  on  a wild  March  morning.  My  con- 
versation with  my  official  friend  Pangloss,  by  whom  I was 
accidentally  accompanied,  took  this  direction  as  we  took 
the  up-hill  direction,  because  the  object  of  my  uncommer- 
cial journey  was  to  see  some  discharged  soldiers  who  had 
recently  come  home  from  India.  There  were  men  of 
Havelock’s  among  them;  there  were  men  who  had  been 
in  many  of  the  great  battles  of  the  great  Indian  campaign, 
among  them;  and  I was  curious  to  note  what  our  dis- 
charged soldiers  looked  like,  when  they  were  done  with. 

I was  not  the  less  interested  (as  I mentioned  to  my  offi- 
cial friend  Pangloss)  because  these  men  had  claimed  to  be 
discharged,  when  their  right  to  be  discharged  was  not  ad- 
mitted. They  had  behaved  with  unblemished  fidelity  and 
bravery;  but,  a change  of  circumstances  had  arisen,  which, 
as  they  considered,  put  an  end  to  their  compact  and  enti- 
tled them  to  enter  on  a new  one.  Their  demand  had  been 
blunderingly  resisted  by  the  authorities  in  India;  but,  it 
is  to  be  presumed  that  the  men  were  not  far  wrong,  inas- 
much as  the  bungle  had  ended  in  their  being  sent  home 
discharged,  in  pursuance  of  orders  from  home.  (There 
was  an  immense  waste  of  money,  of  course.) 

Under  these  circumstances — thought  I,  as  I walked  up 
the  hill,  on  which  I accidentally  encountered  my  official 


72 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


friend — under  these  circumstances  of  the  men  having  suc- 
cessfully opposed  themselves  to  the  Pagoda  Department  of 
that  great  Circumlocution  Office  on  which  the  sun  never 
sets  and  the  light  of  reason  never  rises,  the  Pagoda  Depart- 
ment will  have  been  particularly  careful  of  the  national 
honour.  It  will  have  shown  these  men,  in  the  scrupulous 
good  faith,  not  to  say  the  generosity,  of  its  dealing  with 
them,  that  great  national  authorities  can  have  no  small  re- 
taliations and  revenges.  It  will  have  made  every  provision 
for  their  health  on  the  passage  home,  and  will  have  landed 
them,  restored  from  their  campaigning  fatigues  by  a sea- 
voyage,  pure  air,  sound  food,  and  good  medicines.  And  I 
pleased  myself  with  dwelling  beforehand,  on  the  great  ac- 
counts of  their  personal  treatment  which  these  men  would 
carry  into  their  various  towns  and  villages,  and  on  the  in- 
creasing popularity  of  the  service  that  would  insensibly  fol- 
low. I almost  began  to  hope  that  the  hitherto-never- fail- 
ing deserters  on  my  railroad  would  by-and-bye  become  a 
phenomenon. 

In  this  agreeable  frame  of  mind  I entered  the  workhouse 
of  Liverpool. — For,  the  cultivation  of  laurels  in  a sandy  soil, 
had  brought  the  soldiers  in  question  to  that  abode  of  Glory. 

Before  going  into  their  wards  to  visit  them,  I inquired 
how  they  had  made  their  triumphant  entry  there?  They 
had  been  brought  through  the  rain  in  carts,  it  seemed,  from 
the  landing-place  to  the  gate,  and  had  then  been  carried 
up-stairs  on  the  backs  of  paupers.  Their  groans  and  pains 
during  the  performance  of  this  glorious  pageant,  had  been 
so  distressing,  as  to  bring  tears  into  the  eyes  of  spectators 
but  too  well  accustomed  to  scenes  of  suffering.  The  men 
were  so  dreadfully  cold,  that  those  who  could  get  near  the 
fires  were  hard  to  be  restrained  from  thrusting  their  feet  in 
among  tJie  blazing  coals.  They  were  so  horribly  reduced, 
that  they  were  awful  to  look  upon.  Racked  with  dysen- 
tery and  blackened  with  scurvy,  one  hundred  and  forty 
wretched  soldiers  had  been  revived  with  brandy  and  laid  in 
bed. 

My  official  friend  Pangloss  is  lineally  descended  from  a 
learned  doctor  of  that  name,  who  was  once  tutor  to  Can- 
dide,  an  ingenious  young  gentleman  of  some  celebrity.  In 
his  personal  character,  he  is  as  humane  and  worthy  a gen- 
tleman as  any  I know;  in  his  official  capacity,  he  unfortu- 
nately preaches  the  doctrines  of  his  renowned  ancestor,  by 


THE  UNC03IMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  73 

demonstrating  on  all  occasions  that  we  live  in  the  best  of 
all  possible  official  worlds. 

‘^In  the  name  of  Humanity,’’  said  I,  ^^how  did  the  men 
fall  into  this  deplorable  state?  Was  the  ship  well  found 
in  stores?  ” 

I am  not  here  to  asseverate  that  I know  the  fact,  of  my 
own  knowledge,”  answered  Pangloss,  ‘^but  I have  grounds 
for  asserting  that  the  stores  were  the  best  of  all  possible 
•stores.” 

A medical  officer  laid  before  us,  a handful  of  rotten  bis- 
cuit, and  a handful  of  split  peas.  The  biscuit  was  a honey- 
<?ombed  heap  of  maggots,  and  the  excrement  of  maggots. 
The  peas  were  even  harder  than  this  filth.  A similar  hand- 
ful had  been  experimentally  boiled  six  hours,  and  had 
shown  no  signs  of  softening.  These  were  the  stores  on 
which  the  soldiers  had  been  fed. 

The  beef ” I began,  when  Pangloss  cut  me  short. 

‘‘Was  the  best  of  all  possible  beef,”  said  he. 

^ But,  behold,  there  was  laid  before  us  certain  evidence 
given  at  the  Coroner’s  Inquest,  holden  on  some  of  the  men 
(who  had  obstinately  died  of  their  treatment),  and  from 
that  evidence  it  appeared  that  the  beef  was  the  worst  of 
possible  beef ! 

“Then  I lay  my  hand  upon  my  heart,  and  take  my 
stand,”  said  Pan  gloss,  “by  the  pork,  which  was  the  best 
of  all  possible  pork.” 

“ But  look  at  this  food  before  our  eyes,  if  one  may  so 
misuse  the  word,”  said  I.  “ Would  any  Inspector  who  did 
his  duty,  pass  such  abomination?” 

“It  ought  not  to  have  been  passed,”  Pangloss  admitted. 

“Then  the  authorities  out  there ” I began,  when 

Pangloss  cut  me  short  again. 

“There  would  certainly  seem  to  have  been  something 
wrong  somewhere,”  said  he;  “but  I am  prepared  to  prove 
that  the  authorities  out  there,  are  the  best  of  all  possible 
authorities.” 

I never  heard  of  any  impeached  public  authority  in  my 
life,  who  was  not  the  best  public  authority  in  existence. 

“We  are  told  of  these  unfortunate  men  being  laid  low 
by  scurvy,”  said  I.  “Since  lime-juice  has  been  regularly 
stored  and  served  out  in  our  navy,  surely  that  disease, 
which  used  to  devastate  it,  has  almost  disappeared?  Was 
there  lime-juice  aboard  this  transport?  ” 


74 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


My  official  friend  was  beginning  ^Hhe  best  of  all  possible 

when  an  inconvenient  medical  forefinger  pointed  out 

another  passage  in  the  evidence,  from  which  it  appeared 
that  the  lime-juice  had  been  bad  too.  Not  to  mention  that 
the  vinegar  had  been  bad  too,  the  vegetables  bad  too,  the 
cooking  accommodation  insufficient  (if  there  had  been  any- 
thing worth  mentioning  to  cook),  the  water  supply  exceed- 
ingly inadequate,  and  the  beer  sour. 

^‘Then  the  men,’’  said  Pangloss,  a little  irritated,  ^^were 
the  worst  of  all  possible  men.” 

In  what  respect?  ” I asked. 

^^Oh!  Habitual  drunkards,”  said  Pangloss. 

But,  again  the  same  incorrigible  medical  forefinger 
pointed  out  another  passage  in  the  evidence,  showing  that 
the  dead  men  had  been  examined  after  death,  and  that 
they,  at  least,  could  not  possibly  have  been  habitual  drunk- 
ards, because  the  organs  within  them  which  must  have 
shown  traces  of  that  habit,  were  perfectly  sound. 

‘‘And  besides,”  said  the  three  doctors  present,  one  and 
all,  “ habitual  drunkards  brought  as  low  as  these  men  have 
been,  could  not  recover  under  care  and  food,  as  the  great 
majority  of  these  men  are  recovering.  They  would  not  have 
strength  of  constitution  to  do  it.” 

“Reckless  and  improvident  dogs,  then,”  said  Pangloss. 
“Always  are — nine  times  out  of  ten.” 

I turned  to  the  master  of  the  workhouse,  and  asked  him 
whether  the  men  had  any  money? 

“Money?”  said  he.  “I  have  in  my  iron  safe,  nearly 
four  hundred  pounds  of  theirs;  the  agents  have  nearly  a 
hundred  pounds  more;  and  many  of  them  have  left  money 
in  Indian  banks  besides.” 

“ Hah  ! ” said  I to  myself,  as  we  went  up-stairs,  “ this  is 
not  the  best  of  all  possible  stories,  I doubt ! ” 

We  went  into  a large  ward,  containing  some  twenty  or 
five-and- twenty  beds.  We  went  into  several  such  wards, 
one  after  another.  I find  it  very  difficult  to  indicate  what 
a shocking  sight  I saw  in  them,  without  frightening  the 
reader  from  the  perusal  of  these  lines,  and  defeating  my 
object  of  making  it  known. 

O the  sunken  eyes  that  turned  to  me  as  I walked  between 
the  rows  of  beds,  or — vorse  still — that  glazedly  looked  at 
the  white  ceiling,  and  saw  nothing  and  cared  for  nothing! 
Here,  lay  the  skeleton  of  a man,  so  lightly  covered  with 


1 

I THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  75 

a thin  unwholesome  skin,  that  not  a bone  in  the  anatomy 
was  clothed,  and  I could  clasp  the  arm  above  the  elbow,  in 
my  finger  and  thumb.  Here,  lay  a man  with  the  black 
-scurvy  eating  his  legs  away,  his  gums  gone,  and  his  teeth 
all  gaunt  and  bare.  This  bed  was  empty,  because  gangrene 
had  set  in,  and  the  patient  had  died  but  yesterday.  That 
bed  was  a hopeless  one,  because  its  occupant  was  sinking 
fast,  and  could  only  be  roused  to  turn  the  poor  pinched 
mask  of  face  upon  the  pillow,  with  a feeble  moan.  The 
awful  thinness  of  the  fallen  cheeks,  the  awful  brightness 
of  the  deep  set  eyes,  the  lips  of  lead,  the  hands  of  ivory, 
the  recumbent  human  images  lying  in  the  shadow  of  death 
with  a kind  of  solemn  twilight  on  them,  like  the  sixty  who 
had  died  aboard  the  ship  and  were  lying  at  the  bottom  of 
the  sea,  O Pangloss,  God  forgive  you! 

• In  one  bed,  lay  a man  whose  life  had  been  saved  (as  it 
was  hoped)  by  deep  incisions  in  the  feet  and  legs.  While 
I was  speaking  to  him,  a nurse  came  up  to  change  the 
jpoultices  which  this  operation  had  rendered  necessary,  and 
[ had  an  instinctive  feeling  that  it  was  not  well  to  turn 
-iway,  merely  to  spare  myself.  He  was  sorely  wasted  and 
keenly  susceptible,  but  the  efforts  he  made  to  subdue  any 
expression  of  impatience  or  suffering,  were  quite  heroic, 
it  was  easy  to  see,  in  the  shrinking  of  the  figure,  and  the 
drawing  of  the  bed-clothes  over  the  head,  how  acute  the 
mduiance  was,  and  it  made  me  shrink  too,  as  if  1 were  in 
oain;  but,  when  the  new  bandages  were  on,  and  the  poor 
t.eet  were  composed  again,  he  made  an  apology  for  himself 
though  he  had  not  uttered  a word),  and  said  plaintively, 

‘ I am  so  tender  and  weak,  you  see,  sir!^^  Neither  from 
nim  nor  from  any  one  sufferer  of  the  whole  ghastly  num- 
ber, did  I hear  a complaint.  Of  thankfulness  for  present 
olicitude  and  care,  I heard  much;  of  complaint,  not  a 
word. 

I think  I could  have  recognised  in  the  dismalest  skeleton 
mere,  the  ghost  of  a soldier.  Something  of  the  old  air 
was  still  latent  in  the  palest  shadow  of  life  I talked  to. 
)ne  emaciated  creature,  in  the  strictest  literality  worn  to 
he  bone,  lay  stretched  on  his  back,  looking  so  like  death 
hat  I asked  one  of  the  doctors  if  he  were  not  dying,  or 
ead?  A few  kind  words  from  the  doctor,  in  his  ear,  mid 
-c  opened  his  eyes,  and  smiled— looked,  in  a moment,  as 
t he  would  have  made  a salute,  if  he  could.  ''  We  shall 


76 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


pull  him  through,  please  God,’^  said  the  Doctor.  ^‘Plase 
God,  surr,  and  thankye,’^  said  the  patient.  You  are 
much  better  to-day;  are  you  not?’’  said  the  Doctor. 
^‘Plase  God,  surr;  ’tis  the  slape  I want,  surr;  ’tis  my 
breathin’  makes  the  nights  so  long.”  He  is  a careful  fel- 
low this,  you  must  know,”  said  the  Doctor,  cheerfully;  ‘Ht 
was  raining  hard  when  they  put  him  in  the  open  cart  to 
bring  him  here,  and  he  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  ask  to 
have  a sovereign  taken  out  of  his  pocket  that  he  had  there, 
and  a cab  engaged.  Probably  it  saved  his  life.”  The  pa- 
tient rattled  out  the  skeleton  of  a laugh,  and  said,  proud  of 
the  story,  ’Deed,  surr,  an  open  cairt  was  a comical  means 
o’  bringin’  a dyin’  man  here,  and  a clever  way  to  kill  him.” 
You  might  have  sworn  to  him  for  a soldier  when  he  said  it. 

One  thing  had  perplexed  me  very  much  in  going  from 
bed  to  bed.  A very  significant  and  cruel  thing.  I could 
find  no  young  man  but  one.  He  had  attracted  my  notice, 
by  having  got  up  and  dressed  himself  in  his  soldier’s  jacket 
and  trousers,  with  the  intention  of  sitting  by  the  fire;  but 
he  had  found  himself  too  weak,  and  had  crept  back  to  his 
bed  and  laid  himself  down  on  the  outside  of  it.  I could 
have  pronounced  him,  alone,  to  be  a young  man  aged  by 
famine  and  sickness.  As  we  were  standing  by  the  Irish 
soldier’s  bed,  I mentioned  my  perplexit}^  to  the  Doctor. 
He  took  a board  with  an  inscription  on  it  from  the  head  of 
the  Irishman’s  bed,  and  asked  me  what  age  I supposed 
that  man  to  be?  I had  observed  him  with  attention  while 
talking  to  him,  and  answered,  confidently,  Fifty.”  The 
Doctor,  with  a pitying  glance  at  the  patient,  who  had 
dropped  into  a stupor  again,  put  the  board  back,  and  said. 
Twenty-four.” 

All  the  arrangements  of  the  wards  were  excellent.  They 
could  not  have  been  more  humane,  sympathising,  gentle,] 
attentive,  or  wholesome.  The  owners  of  the  ship,  too,  had 
done  all  they  could,  liberally.  There  were  bright  fires  in 
every  room,  and  the  convalescent  men  were  sitting  round 
them,  reading  various  papers  and  periodicals.  I took  the 
liberty  of  inviting  my  official  friend  Pangloss  to  look  at 
those  convalescent  men,  and  to  tell  me  whether  their  faces 
and  bearing  were  or  were  not,  generally,  the  faces  and 
bearing  of  steady  respectable  soldiers?  The  master  of  the 
workhouse,  overhearing  me,  said  he  had  had  a pretty  largo 
experience  of  troops,  and  that  better  conducted  men  than 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


77 


these,  he  had  never  had  to  do  with.  They  were  always 
(he  added)  as  we  saw  them.  And  of  us  visitors  (I  add) 
they  knew  nothing  whatever,  except  that  we  were  there. 

It  was  audacious  in  me,  but  I took  another  liberty 
with  Pangloss.  Prefacing  it  with  the  observation  that,  of 
course,  I knew  beforehand  that  there  was  not  the  faintest 
desire,  anywhere,  to  hush  up  any  part  of  this  dreadful 
business,  and  that  the  Inquest  was  the  fairest  of  all  pos- 
sible Inquests,  I besought  four  things  of  Pangloss.  First- 
ly, to  observe  that  the  Inquest  was  not  held  in  that  place, 

. but  at  some  distance  off.  Secondly,  to  look  round  upon 
t^hose  helpless  spectres  in  their  beds.  Thirdly,  to  remem- 
: ber  that  the  witnesses  produced  from  among  them  before 
that  Inquest,  could  not  have  been  selected  because  they 
were  the  men  who  had  the  most  to  tell  it,  but  because  they 
happened  to  be  in  a state  admitting  of  their  safe  removal, 
rourthly,  to  say  whether  the  coroner  and  Jury  could  have 
come  there,  to  those  pillows,  and  taken  a little  evidence? 

I My  ofncial  friend  declined  to  commit  himself  to  a reply. 

I There  was  a sergeant,  reading,  in  one  of  the  fireside 
groups.  As  he  was  a man  of  very  intelligent  countenance, 
and  as  I have  a great  respect  for  non-commissioned  officers 
as  a class,  I sat  down  on  the  nearest  bed,  to  have  some 
talk  with  him.  (It  was  the  bed  of  one  of  the  grisliest  of 
the^poor  skeletons,  and  he  died  soon  afterwards.) 

I was  glad  to  see,  in  the  evidence  of  an  officer  at  the 
Inquest,  sergeant,  that  he  never  saw  men  behave  better  on 
board  ship  than  these  men.” 

“They  did  behave  very  well,  sir.” 

“I  was  glad  to  see,  too,  that  every  man  had  a hammock.” 
ihe  sergeant  gravely  shook  his  head.  “There  must  be 
some  mistake,  sir.  The  men  of  my  own  mess  had  no  ham- 
mocks. There  were  not  hammocks  enough  on  board,  and 
the  men  of  the  two  next  messes  laid  hold  of  hammocks  for 
themselves  as  soon  as  they  got  on  board,  and  squeezed  my 
men  out,  as  I may  say.^^ 

“ Had  the  squeezed-out  men  none  then?  ” 

^ne,  sir.  As  men  died,  their  hammocks  were  used 
oy  other  men,  who  wanted  hammocks:  but  many  men  had 
lone  at  all.” 

“Then  you  don’t  agree  with  the  evidence  on  that  point?  ” 
Certainly  not,  sir.  A man  can’t,  when  he  knows  to  the 
sontrary.” 


78 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Did  any  of  the  men  sell  their  bedding  for  drink?  ” 

There  is  some  mistake  on  that  point  too,  sir.  Men  were 
under  the  impression — I knew  it  for  a fact  at  the  time 
—that  it  was  not  allowed  to  take  blankets  or  bedding  on 
board,  and  so  men  who  had  things  of  that  sort  came  to  sell 
them  purposely.’’ 

Did  any  of  the  men  sell  their  clothes  for  drink?” 

''They  did,  sir.”  (I  believe  there  never  was  a more 
truthful  witness  than  the  sergeant.  He  had  no  inclination 
to  make  out  a case.) 

"Many?” 

"Some,  sir”  (considering  the  question).  "Soldier-like. 
They  had  been  long  marching  in  the  rainy  season,  by  bad 
roads — no  roads  at  all,  in  short — and  when  they  got  to  Cal- 
cutta, men  turned  to  and  drank,  before  taking  a last  look 
at  it.  Soldier-like.” 

" Do  you  see  any  men  in  this  ward,  for  example,  who 
sold  clothes  for  drink  at  that  time?  ” 

The  sergeant’s  wan  eye,  happily  just  beginning  to  rekin- 
dle with  health,  travelled  round  the  place  and  came  back 
tome.  "Certainly,  sir.” 

" The  marching  to  Calcutta  in  the  rainy  season  must  have 
been  severe?  ” 

"It  was  very  severe,  sir.” 

" Yet  what  with  the  rest  and  the  sea  air,  I should  have 
thought  that  the  men  (even  the  men  who  got  drunk)  would 
have  soon  begun  to  recover  on  board  ship?  ” 

" So  they  might;  but  the  bad  food  told  upon  them,  and 
when  we  got  into  a cold  latitude,  it  began  to  tell  more,  and 
the  men  dropped.” 

" The  sick  had  a general  disinclination  for  food,  I am 
told,  sergeant?  ” 

" Have  you  seen  the  food,  sir?  ” 

"Some  of  it.” 

" Have  you  seen  the  state  of  their  mouths,  sir  ? 

If  the  sergeant,  who  was  a man  of  a few  orderly  words, ^ 
had  spoken  the  amount  of  this  volume,  he  could  not  have 
settled  that  question  better.  I believe  the  sick  could  as 
soon  have  eaten  the  ship,  as  the  ship’s  provisions. 

I took  the  additional  liberty  with  my  friend  Pangloss, 
when  I had  left  the  sergeant  with  good  wishes,  of  asking 
Pangloss  whether  he  had  ever  heard  of  biscuit  getting 
drunk  and  bartering  its  nutritious  qualities  for  putrefac- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


79 


tion  and  vermin;  of  peas  becoming  hardened  in  liquor;  of 
hammocks  drinking  themselves  off  the  face  of  the  earth; 
of  lime-juice,  vegetables,  vinegar,  cooking  accommodation, 
water  supply,  and  beer,  all  taking  to  drinking  together  and 
going  to  ruin?  ‘^If  not  (I  asked  him),  what  did  he  say  in 
defence  of  the  officers  condemned  by  the  Coroner’s  Jury, 
who,  by  signing  the  General  Inspection  report  relative  to 
. the  ship  Great  Tasmania,  chartered  for  these  troops,  had 
deliberately  asserted  all  that  bad  and  poisonous  dunghill 
refuse,  to  be  good  and  wholesome  food?  ” My  official  friend 
replied  that  it  was  a remarkable  fact,  that  whereas  some 
officers  were  only  positively  good,  and  other  officers  only 
comparatively  better,  those  particular  officers  were  super- 
latively the  very  best  of  all  possible  officers. 

My  hand  and  my  heart  fail  me,  in  writing  my  record  of 
this  journey.  The  spectacle  of  the  soldiers  in  the  hospital- 
beds  of  that  Liverpool  workhouse  (a  very  good  workhouse, 
indeed,  be  it  understood),  was  so  shocking  and  so  shame- 
ful, that  as  an  Englishman  I blush  to  remember  it.  It 
would  have  been  simply  unbearable  at  the  time,  but  for  the 
consideration  and  pity  with  which  they  were  soothed  in 
their  sufferings. 

No  punishment  that  our  inefficient  laws  provide,  is 
worthy  of  the  name  when  set  against  the  guilt  of  this  trans- 
action. But,  if  the  memory  of  it  die  out  unavenged,  and 
if  it  do  not  result  in  the  inexorable  dismissal  and  disgrace 
of  those  who  are  responsible  for  it,  their  escape  will  be  in- 
famous to  the  Government  (no  matter  of  what  party)  tliat 
so  neglects  its  duty,  and  infamous  to  the  nation  that  tamely 
suffers  such  intolerable  wrong  to  be  done  in  its  name. 


IX. 

CITY  OF  LONDON  CHURCHES. 

If  the  confession  that  I have  often  travelled  from  this 
Covent  Garden  lodging  of  mine  on  Sundays,  should  give 
offence  to  those  who  never  travel  on  Sundays,  they  will  be 
satisfied  (I  hope)  by  my  adding  that  the  journeys  in  ques- 
tion were  made  to  churches. 

Not  that  I have  any  curiosity  to  hear  powerful  preachers. 


80 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Time  was,  when  I was  dragged  by  the  hair  of  my  head,  as 
one  may  say,  to  hear  too  many.  On  summer  evenings, 
when  every  flower,  and  tree,  and  bird,  might  have  better 
addressed  my  soft  young  heart,  I have  in  my  day  been 
caught  in  the  palm  of  a female  hand  by  the  crown,  have 
been  violently  scrubbed  from  the  neck  to  the  roots  of  the 
hair  as  a purification  for  the  Temple,  and  have  then  been 
carried  off  highly  charged  with  saponaceous  electricity,  to 
be  steamed  like  a potato  in  the  unventilated  breath  of  the 
powerful  Boanerges  Boiler  and  his  congregation,  until  what 
small  mind  I had,  was  quite  steamed  out  of  me.  In  which 
pitiable  plight  I have  been  haled  out  of  the  place  of  meet- 
ing, at  the  conclusion  of  the  exercises,  and  catechised  re- 
specting Boanerges  Boiler,  his  fifthly,  his  sixthly,  and  his 
seventhly,  until  I have  regarded  that  reverend  person  in 
the  light  of  a most  dismal  and  oppressive  Charade.  Time 
was,  when  I was  carried  off  to  platform  assemblages  at 
which  no  human  child,  whether  of  wrath  or  grace,  could 
possibly  keep  its  eyes  open,  and  when  I felt  the  fatal  sleep 
stealing,  stealing  over  me,  and  when  I gradually  heard  the 
orator  in  possession,  spinning  and  humming  like  a great 
top,  until  he  rolled,  collapsed,  and  tumbled  over,  and  I 
discovered  to  my  burning  shame  and  fear,  that  as  to  that 
last  stage  it  was  not  he,  but  I.  I have  sat  under  Boanerges 
when  he  has  specifically  addressed  himself  to  us — us,  the 
infants — and  at  this  present  writing  I hear  his  lumbering 
jocularity  (which  never  amused  us,  though  we  basely  pre- 
tended that  it  did),  and  I behold  his  big  round  face,  and  I 
look  up  the  inside  of  his  outstretched  coat-sleeve  as  if  it 
were  a telescope  with  the  stopper  on,  and  I hate  him  with 
an  unwholesome  hatred  for  two  hours.  Through  such 
means  did  it  come  to  pass  that  I knew  the  powerful 
preacher  from  beginning  to  end,  all  over  and  all  through, 
while  I was  very  young,  and  that  I left  him  behind  at  an 
early  period  of  life.  Peace  be  with  him ! More  peace  than 
he  brought  to  me ! 

Now,  I have  heard  many  preachers  since  that  time — not 
powerful;  merely  Christian,  unaffected,  and  reverential — 
and  I have  had  many  such  preachers  on  my  roll  of  friends. 
But,  it  was  not  to  hear  these,  any  more  than  the  powerful 
class,  that  I made  my  Sunday  journeys.  They  were  jour- 
neys of  curiosity  to  the  numerous  churches  in  the  City  of 
London.  It  came  into  my  head  one  day,  here  had  I been 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


81 


mltivating  a familiarity  with  all  the  churches  of  Rome, 
ind  I knew  nothing  of  the  insides  of  the  old  churches  of 
jondon ! This  befell  on  a Sunday  morning.  I began  my 
expeditions  that  very  same  day,  and  they  lasted  me  a year. 

I never  wanted  to  know  the  names  of  the  churches  to 
vhich  I went,  and  to  this  hour  I am  profoundly  ignorant 
n that  particular  of  at  least  nine-tenths  of  them.  Indeed, 
aving  that  I know  the  church  of  old  Gower^s  tomb  (he 
ies  in  effigy  with  his  head  upon  his  books)  to  be  the  church 
:f  Saint  Saviour’s,  Southwark;  and  the  church  of  Milton’s 
omb  to  be  the  church  of  Cripplegate;  and  the  church  on 
lornhill  with  the  great  golden  keys  to  be  the  church  of 
laint  Peter;  I doubt  if  I could  pass  a competitive  exami- 
:ation  in  any  of  the  names.  NTo  question  did  I ever  ask  of 
iving  creature  concerning  these  churches,  and  no  answer  to 
ny  antiquarian  question  on  the  subject  that  I ever  put  to 
ooks,  shall  harass  the  reader’s  soul.  A full  half  of  my 
leasure  in  them  arose  out  of  their  mystery;  mysterious  I 
ound  them;  mysterious  they  shall  remain  for  me. 

Where  shall  I begin  my  round  of  hidden  and  forgotten 
Id  churches  in  the  City  of  London? 

It  is  twenty  minuutes  short  of  eleven  on  a Sunday  morn- 
ig,  when  I stroll  down  one  of  the  many  narrow  hilly 
Creets  in  the  City  that  tend  due  south  to  the  Thames.  It 
1 my  first  experiment,  and  I have  come  to  the  region  of 
SThittington  in  an  omnibus,  and  we  have  put  down  a fierce- 
yed  spare  old  woman,  whose  slate-coloured  gown  smells 
f herbs,  and  who  walked  up  Aldersgate-street  to  some 
lapel  where  she  comforts  herself  with  brimstone  doctrine, 
warrant.  We  have  also  put  down  a stouter  and  sweeter 
Id  lady,  with  a pretty  large  prayer-book  in  an  unfolded 
3cket-handkerchief,  who  got  out  at  a corner  of  a court 
3ar  Stationers’  Hall,  and  who  I think  must  go  to  church 
lere,  because  she  is  the  widow  of  some  deceased  old  Com- 
iny’s  Beadle.  The  rest  of  our  freight  were  mere  chance 
-easure-seekers  and  rural  walkers,  and  went  on  to  the 
lackwall  railway.  So  many  bells  are  ringing,  when  I 
and  undecided  at  a street  corner,  that  every  sheep  in  the 
clesiastical  fold  might  be  a bell-wether.  The  discordance 
fearful.  My  state  of  indecision  is  referable  to,  and  about 
[ually  divisible  among,  four  great  churches,  which  are  all 
ithin  sight  and  sound,  all  within  the  space  of  a few 
uare  yards. 

6 


82  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

As  I stand  at  tlie  street  corner,  I don’t  see  as  many  as 
four  people  at  once  going  to  church,  though  I see  as  many 
as  four  churches  with  their  steeples  clamouring  for  people. 
1 choose  my  cliurch,  and  go  up  the  flight  of  steps  to  the 
great  entrance  in  the  tower.  A mouldy  tower  within,  and 
like  a neglected  washhouse.  A rope  conies  through  the 
beamed  roof,  and  a man  in  the  corner  pulls  it  and  clashes 
the  bell — a whity-brown  man,  whose  clothes  were  once 
black — a man  with  flue  on  him,  and  cobweb.  He  stares  at 
me,  wondering  how  I come  there,  and  I stare  at  him,  won- 
dering how  he  comes  there.  Through  a screen  of  wood  and 
glass,  I peep  into  the  dim  church.  About  twenty  people 
are  discernible,  waiting  to  begin.  Christening  would  seem 
to  have  faded  out  of  this  church  long  ago,  for  the  font  has 
the  dust  of  desuetude  thick  upon  it,  and  its  wooden  cover 
(shaped  like  an  old-fashioned  tureen-cover)  looks  as  if  it 
wouldn’t  come  off,  upon  requirement.  I perceive  the  altar 
to  be  rickety  and  the  Commandments  damp.  Entering 
after  this  survey,  I jostle  the  clergyman  in  his  canonicals, 
who  is  entering  too  from  a dark  lane  behind  a pew  of  state 
with  curtains,  where  nobody  sits.  The  pew  is  ornamented 
with  four  blue  wands,  once  carried  by  four  somebodys,  I 
suppose,  before  somebody  else,  but  which  there  is  nobody 
now  to  hold  or  receive  honour  from.  I open  the  door  of  a 
family  pew,  and  shut  myself  in;  if  I could  occupy  twenty 
family  pews  at  once  I might  have  them.  The  clerk,  a 
brisk  young  man  (how  does  he  come  here?),  glances  at  me 
knowingly,  as  who  should  say,  You  have  done  it  now; 
you  must  stop.”  Organ  plays.  Organ-loft  is  in  a small 
gallery  across  the  church;  gallery  congregation,  two  girls. 
I wonder  within  myself  what  will  happen  when  we  are  re- 
quired to  sing. 

There  is  a pale  heap  of  books  in  the  corner  of  my  pew, 
and  while  the  organ,  which  is  hoarse  and  sleepy,  plays  in 
such  fashion  that  I can  hear  more  of  the  rusty  working  of 
the  stops  than  of  any  music,  I look  at  the  books,  which  are 
mostly  bound  in  faded  baize  and  stuff.  They  belonged  in 
1754,  to  the  Dowgate  family;  and  who  were  they?  Jane 
Comport  must  have  married  Young  Dowgate,  and  come 
into  the  family  that  way;  Young  Dowgate  was  courting 
Jane  Comport  when  he  gave  her  her  prayer-book,  and  re- 
corded the  presentation  in  the  fly-leaf;  if  Jane  were  fond 
of  Young  Dowgate,  why  did  she  die  and  leave  the  book 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


83 


here?  Perhaps  at  the  rickety  altar,  and  before  the  damp 
Commandments,  she,  Comport,  had  taken  him,  Dowgate, 
in  a flush  of  youthful  hope  and  joy,  and  perhaps  it  had  not 
turned  out  in  the  long  run  as  great  a success  as  was  ex- 
pected? 

The  opening  of  the  service  recalls  my  wandering 
thoughts.  I then  find,  to  my  astonishment,  that  I have 
been,  and  still  am,  taking  a strong  kind  of  invisible  snuff, 
up  my  nose,  into  my  eyes,  and  down  my  throat.  I wink, 
sneeze,  and  cough.  The  clerk  sneezes;  the  clergyman 
winks;  the  unseen  organist  sneezes  and  coughs  (and  prob- 
ably winks);  all  our  little  party  wink,  sneeze,  and  cough. 
The  snuff  seems  to  be  made  of  the  decay  of  matting,  wood, 
cloth,  stone,  iron,  earth,  and  something  else.  Is  the  some- 
thing else,  the  decay  of  dead  citizens  in  the  vaults  below? 
As  sure  as  Death  it  is ! Not  only  in  the  cold  damp  Febru- 
ary day,  do  we  cough  and  sneeze  dead  citizens,  all  through 
the  service,  but  dead  citizens  have  got  into  the  very  bellows 
of  the  organ,  and  half  choked  the  same.  We  stamp  our 
feet  to  warm  them,  and  dead  citizens  arise  in  heavy  clouds. 
Dead  citizens  stick  upon  the  walls,  and  lie  pulverised  on 
the  sounding-board  over  the  clergyman’s  head,  and,  when 
a gust  of  air  comes,  tumble  down  upon  him. 

In  this  first  experience  I was  so  nauseated  by  too  much 
snuff,  made  of  the  Dowgate  family,  the  Comport  branch, 
and  other  families  and  branches,  that  I gave  but  little 
heed  to  our  dull  manner  of  ambling  through  the  service;  to 
the  brisk  clerk’s  manner  of  encouraging  us  to  try  a note 
or  two  at  psalm  time;  to  the  gallery-congregation’s  manner 
of  enjoying  a shrill  duet,  without  a notion  of  time  or  tune; 
to  the  whity-brown  man’s  manner  of  shutting  the  minister 
into  the  pulpit,  and  being  very  particular  with  the  lock  of 
the  door,  as  if  he  were  a dangerous  animal.  But,  I tried 
again  next  Sunday,  and  soon  accustomed  myself  to  the 
dead  citizens  when  I found  that  I could  not  possibly  get  on 
without  them  among  the  City  churches. 

Another  Sunday. 

After  being  again  rung  for  by  conflicting  bells,  like  a leg 
of  mutton  or  a laced  hat  a hundred  years  ago,  I make  se- 
lection of  a church  oddly  put  away  in  a corner  among  a 
number  of  lanes — a smaller  church  than  the  last,  and  an 
ugly : of  about  the  date  of  Queen  Anne.  As  a congrega- 
tion, we  are  fourteen  strong : not  counting  an  exhausted 


84 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


charity  school  in  a gallery,  which  has  dwindled  away  to 
four  boys,  and  two  girls.  In  the  porch,  is  a benefaction  of 
loaves  of  bread,  which  there  would  seem  to  be  nobody  left 
in  the  exhausted  congregation  to  claim,  and  which  I saw 
an  exhausted  beadle,  long  faded  out  of  uniform,  eating 
with  his  eyes  for  self  and  family  when  I passed  in.  There 
is  also  an  exhausted  clerk  in  a brown  wig,  and  two  or  three 
exhausted  doors  and  windows  have  been  bricked  up,  and 
the  service  books  are  musty,  and  the  pulpit  cushions  are 
threadbare,  and  the  whole  of  the  church  furniture  is  in  a 
very  advanced  stage  of  exhaustion.  We  are  three  old 
women  (habitual),  two  young  lovers  (accidental),  two 
tradesmen,  one  with  a wife  and  one  alone,  an  aunt  and 
nephew,  again  two  girls  (these  two  girls  dressed  out  for 
church  with  everything  about  them  limp  that  should  be 
stiff,  and  vice  versa ^ are  an  invariable  experience),  and 
three  sniggering  boys.  The  clergyman  is,  perhaps,  the 
chaplain  of  a civic  company;  he  has  the  moist  and  vinous 
look,  and  eke  the  bulbous  boots,  of  one  acquainted  with 
^Twenty  port,  and  comet  vintages. 

We  are  so  quiet  in  our  dulness  that  the  three  sniggering 
boys,  who  have  got  away  into  a corner  by  the  altar-railing, 
give  us  a start,  like  crackers,  whenever  they  laugh.  And 
this  reminds  me  of  my  own  village  church  where,  during 
sermon-time  on  bright  Sundays  when  the  birds  are  very 
musical  indeed,  farmers’  boys  patter  out  over  the  stone 
pavement,  and  the  clerk  steps  out  from  his  desk  after 
them,  and  is  distinctly  heard  in  the  summer  repose  to  pur- 
sue and  punch  them  in  the  churchyard,  and  is  seen  to  return 
with  a meditative  countenance,  making  believe  that  nothing 
of  the  sort  has  happened.  The  aunt  and  nephew  in  this 
City  church  are  much  disturbed  by  the  sniggering  boys. 
The  nephew  is  himself  a boy,  and  the  sniggerers  tempt  him 
to  secular  thoughts  of  marbles  and  string,  by  secretly  offer- 
ing such  commodities  to  his  distant  contemplation.  This 
young  Saint  Anthony  for  a while  resists,  but  presently  be- 
comes a backslider,  and  in  dumb  show  defies  the  sniggerers 
to  heave”  a marble  or  two  in  his  direction.  Herein  he  is. 
detected  by  the  aunt  (a  rigorous  reduced  gentlewoman  who 
has  the  charge  of  offices),  and  I perceive  that  worthy  rela- 
tive to  poke  him  in  the  side,  with  the  corrugated  hooked 
handle  of  an  ancient  umbrella.  The  nephew  reveitges 
himself  for  this,  by  holding  his  breath  and  terrifying  his 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


85 


kinswoman  with  the  dread  belief  that  he  has  made  up  his 
mind  to  burst.  Regardless  of  whispers  and  shakes,  he 
swells  and  becomes  discoloured,  and  yet  again  swells  and 
becomes  discoloured,  until  the  aunt  can  bear  it  no  longer, 
but  leads  him  out,  with  no  visible  neck,  and  with  his  eyes 
going  before  him  like  a prawn’s.  This  causes  the  snigger- 
ers  to  regard  flight  as  an  eligible  move,  and  I know  which 
of  them  will  go  out  first,  because  of  the  over-devout  atten- 
tion that  he  suddenly  concentrates  on  the  clergyman.  In  a 
little  while,  this  hypocrite,  with  an  elaborate  demonstra- 
tion of  hushing  his  footsteps,  and  with  a face  generally  ex- 
pressive of  having  until  now  forgotten  a religious  appoint- 
ment elsewhere,  is  gone.  Number  two  gets  out  in  the  same 
way,  but  rather  quicker.  Number  three  getting  safely  to 
the  door,  there  turns  reckless,  and  banging  it  open,  flies 
forth  with  a Whoop!  that  vibrates  to  the  top  of  the  tower 
'above  us. 

The  clergyman,  who  is  of  a prandial  presence  and  a 
muffled  voice,  may  be  scant  of  hearing  as  well  as  of  breath, 
jbut  he  only  glances  up,  as  having  an  idea  that  somebody 
has  said  Amen  in  a wrong  place,  and  continues  his  steady 
jog-trot,  like  a farmer’s  wife  going  to  market.  He  does  all 
he  has  to  do,  in  the  same  easy  way,  and  gives  us  a concise 
sermon,  still  like  the  jog-trot  of  the  farmer’s  wife  on  a 
level  road.  Its  drowsy  cadence  soon  lulls  the  three  old 
women  asleep,  and  the  unmarried  tradesman  sits  looking 
out  at  window,  and  the  married  tradesman  sits  looking  at 
his  wife’s  bonnet,  and  the  lovers  sit  looking  at  one  another, 
so  superlatively  happy,  that  I mind  when  I,  turned  of 
■eighteen,  went  with  my  Angelica  to  a City  church  on  ac- 
3ount  of  a shower  (by  this  special  coincidence  that  it  Avas 
in  Huggin-lane),  and  when  I said  my  Angelica,  ‘^Let  the 
blessed  event,  Angelica,  occur  at  no  altar  but  this!”  and 
when  my  Angelica  consented  that  it  should  occur  at  no 
3ther — which  it  certainly  never  did,  for  it  never  occurred 
anywhere.  And  O,  Angelica,  what  has  become  of  you, 
:his  present  Sunday  morning  when  I can’t  attend  to  the 
^ sermon;  and,  more  difficult  question  than  that,  what  has 
)ecome  of  Me  as  I was  Avhen  I sat  by  your  side ! 

But,  we  receive  the  signal  to  make  that  unanimous  dive 
which  surely  is  a little  conventional — like  the  strange 
•ustlings  and  settlings  and  clearings  of  throats  and  noses, 
which  are  never  dispensed  with,  at  certain  points  of  the 


8(> 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Church  service,  and  are  never  held  to  be  necessary  under 
any  other  circumstances.  In  a minute  more  it  is  all  over, 
and  the  organ  expresses  itself  to  be  as  glad  of  it  as  it  can  be 
of  anything  in  its  rheumatic  state,  and  in  another  minute 
we  are  all  of  us  out  of  the  church,  and  Whity-brown  has 
locked  it  up.  Another  minute  or  little  more,  and,  in  the 
neighbouring  churchyard — not  the  yard  of  that  church,  but 
of  another — a churchyard  like  a great  shabby  old  mignon- 
ette box,  with  two  trees  in  it  and  one  tomb — I meet  Whity- 
brown,  in  his  private  capacity,  fetching  a pint  of  beer  for 
his  dinner  from  the  public-house  in  the  corner,  where  the 
keys  of  the  rotting  fire-ladders  are  kept  and  were  never 
asked  for,  and  where  there  is  a ragged,  white-seamed,  out- 
at-elbowed  bagatelle  board  on  the  first  floor. 

In  one  of  these  City  churches,  and  only  in  one,  I found 
an  individual  who  might  have  been  claimed  as  expressly  a 
City  personage.  I remember  the  church,  by  the  feature 
that  the  clergyman  couldn’t  get  to  his  own  desk  without 
going  through  the  clerk’s,  or  couldn’t  get  to  the  pulpit 
without  going  through  the  reading-desk — I forget  which, 
and  it  is  no  matter— and  by  the  presence  of  this  personage 
among  the  exceedingly  sparse  congregation.  I doubt  if  we 
were  a dozen,  and  we  had  no  exhausted  charity  school  to 
help  us  out.  The  personage  was  dressed  in  black  of  square 
cut,  and  was  stricken  in  years,  and  wore  a black  velvet  cap, 
and  cloth  shoes.  He  was  of  a staid,  wealthy,  and  dissat- 
isfied aspect.  In  his  hand,  he  conducted  to  church  a mys- 
terious child : a child  of  the  feminine  gender.  The  child 
had  a beaver  hat,  with  a stiff  drab  plume  that  surely  never 
belonged  to  any  bird  of  the  air.  The  child  was  further 
attired  in  a nankeen  frock  and  spencer,  brown  boxing- 
gloves,  and  a veil.  It  had  a blemish,  in  the  nature  of  cur- 
rant jelly,  on  its  chin;  and  was  a thirsty  child.  Insomuch 
that  the  personage  carried  in  his  pocket  a green  bottle, 
from  which,  when  the  first  psalm  was  given  out,  the  child 
was  openly  refreshed.  At  all  other  times  throughout  the 
service  it  was  motionless,  and  stood  on  the  seat  of  the 
large  pew,  closely  fitted  into  the  corner,  like  a rain-water 
pipe. 

The  personage  never  opened  his  book,  and  never  looked 
at  the  clergyman.  He  never  sat  down  either,  but  stood 
with  his  arms  leaning  on  the  top  of  the  pew,  and  his  fore- 
head sometimes  shaded  with  his  right  hand,  always  look- 


THE  unco:mmercial  traveller. 


87 


ing  at  the  church  door.  It  was  a long  church  for  a church 
of  its  size,  and  he  was  at  the  upper  end,  but  he  always 
looked  at  the  door.  That  he  was  an  old  bookkeeper,  or  an 
old  trader  who  had  kept  his  own  books,  and  that  he  might 
be  seen  at  the  Bank  of  England  about  Dividend  times,  no 
doubt.  That  he  had  lived  in  the  City  all  his  life  and  was 
disdainful  of  other  localities,  no  doubt.  Why  he  looked 
at  the  door,  I never  absolutely  proved,  but  it  is  my  belief 
that  he  lived  in  expectation  of  the  time  when  the  citizens 
would  come  back  to  live  in  the  City,  and  its  ancient  glories 
would  be  renewed.  He  appeared  to  expect  that  this  would 
occur  on  a Sunday,  and  that  the  wanderers  would  first  ap- 
pear, in  the  deserted  churches,  penitent  and  humbled. 
Hence,  he  looked  at  the  door  which  they  never  darkened. 
Whose  child  the  child  was,  whether  the  child  of  a disin- 
herited daughter,  or  some  parish  orphan  whom  the  person- 
age had  adopted,  there  was  nothing  to  lead  up  to.  It  never 
played,  or  skipped,  or  smiled.  Once,  the  idea  occurred  to 
me  that  it  was  an  automaton,  and  that  the  personage  had 
made  it;  but  following  the  strange  couple  out  one  Sunday, 
I heard  the  personage  say  to  it,  ''Thirteen  thousand 
pounds;  ’’  to  which  it  added  in  a weak  human  voice,  "Sev- 
enteen and_  fourpence.’'  Four  Sundays  I followed  them 
out,  and  this  is  all  I ever  heard  or  saw  them  say.  One 
Sunday,  I followed  them  home.  They  lived  behind  a 
pump,  and  the  personage  opened  their  abode  with  an  ex- 
ceeding large  key.  The  one  solitary  inscription  on  their 
house  related  to  a fire-plug.*  The  house  was  partly  under- 
mined by  a deserted  and  closed  gateway;  its  windows  were 
blind  with  dirt;  and  it  stood  with  its  face  disconsolately 
turned  to  a wall.  Five  great  churches  and  two  small  ones 
rang  their  Sunday  bells  between  this  house  and  the  church 
the  couple  frequented,  so  they  must  have  had  some  special 
reason  for  going  a quarter  of  a mile  to  it.  The  last  time  I 
saw  them,  was  on  this  wise.  I had  been  to  explore  an- 
other church  at  a distance,  and  happened  to  pass  the  church 
they  frequented,  at  about  two  of  the  afternoon  when  that 
edifice  was  closed.  But,  a little  side-door,  which  I had 
never  observed  before,  stood  open,  and  disclosed  certain 
cellarous  steps.  Methought  "They  are  airing  the  vaults 
to-day, when  the  personage  and  the  child  silently  arrived 
at  the  steps,  and  silently  descended.  Of  course,  I came  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  personage  had  at  last  despaired  of 


88 


TITF.  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


the  looked -for  return  of  the  penitent  citizens,  and  that  he 
and  tlie  child  went  down  to  get  themselves  buried. 

In  tlie  course  of  my  pilgrimages  I came  upon  one  obscure 
church  which  had  broken  out  in  the  melodramatic  style, 
and  was  got  up  with  various  tawdry  decorations,  much 
after  the  manner  of  the  extinct  London  may-poles.  These 
attractions  had  induced  several  young  priests  or  deacons 
in  black  bibs  for  waistcoats,  and  several  young  ladies  in- 
terested in  that  holy  order  (the  proportion  being,  as  I esti- 
mated, seventeen  young  ladies  to  a deacon),  to  come  into 
the  City  as  a new  and  odd  excitement.  It  was  wonderful 
to  see  how  these  young  people  played  out  their  little  play 
in  the  heart  of  the  City,  all  among  themselves,  without  the 
deserted  City’s  knowing  anything  about  it.  It  was  as  if 
you  should  take  an  empty  counting-house  on  a Sunday,  and 
act  one  of  the  old  Mysteries  there.  They  had  impressed  a 
small  school  (from  what  neighbourhood  I don’t  know)  to 
assist  in  the  performances,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  notice 
frantic  garlands  of  inscription  on  the  walls,  especially  ad- 
dressing those  poor  innocents  in  characters  impossible  for 
them  to  decipher.  There  was  a remarkably  agreeable  smell 
of  pomatum  in  this  congregation. 

But,  in  other  cases,  rot  and  mildew  and  dead  citizens 
formed  the  uppermost  scent,  while,  infused  into  it  in  a 
dreamy  way  not  at  all  displeasing,  was  the  staple  character 
of  the  neighbourhood.  In  the  churches  about  Mark-lane, 
for  example,  there  was  a dry  whiff  of  wheat;  and  I acci- 
dentally struck  an  airy  sample  of  barley  out  of  an  aged 
hassock  in  one  of  them.  From  Eood-lane  to  Tower-street, 
and  thereabouts,  there  was  often  a subtle  flavour  of  wine: 
sometimes,  of  tea.  One  church  near  Mincing-lane  smelt 
like  a druggist’s  drawer.  Behind  the  Monument  the  service 
had  a flavour  of  damaged  oranges,  which,  a little  further 
down  towards  the  river,  tempered  into  herrings,  and  grad- 
ually toned  into  a cosmopolitan  blast  of  fish.  In  one 
church,  the  exact  counterpart  of  the  church  in  the  Bake’s 
Progress  where  the  hero  is  being  married  to  the  horrible  old 
lady,  there  was  no  speciality  of  atmosphere,  until  the  organ 
shook  a perfume  of  hides  all  over  us  from  some  adjacent 
warehouse. 

Be  the  scent  what  it  would,  however,  there  was  no  spe- 
ciality in  the  people.  There  were  never  enough  of  them  to 
represent  any  calling  or  neighbourhood.  They  had  all  gone 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  89 

elsewhere  over-night,  and  the  few  stragglers  in  the  many 
churches  languished  there  inexpressively. 

Among  the  tJncommercial  travels  in  which  I have  en- 
gaged, this  year  of  Sunday  travel  occupies  its  own  place, 
apart  from  all  the  rest.  Whether  I think  of  the  church 
where  the  sails  of  the  oyster-boats  in  the  river  almost 
flapped  against  the  windows,  or  of  the  church  where  the 
railroad  made  the  bells  hum  as  the  train  rushed  by  above 
the  roof,  I recall  a curious  experience.  On  summer  Sun- 
days, in  the  gentle  rain  or  the  bright  sunshine— either, 
deepening  the  idleness  of  the  idle  City— I have  sat,  in  that 
singular  silence  which  belongs  to  resting-places  usually 
astir,  in  scores  of  buildings  at  the  heart  of  the  world’s 
metropolis,  unknown  to  far  greater  numbers  of  people 
speaking  the  English  tongue,  than  the  ancient  edifices  of 
the  Eternal  City,  or  the  Pyramids  of  Egypt.  The  dark 
vestries  and  registries  into  which  I have  peeped,  and  the 
little  hemmed-in  churchyards  that  have  echoed  to  my  feet, 
have  left  impressions  on  my  memory  as  distinct  and  quaint 
as  any  it  has  in  that  way  received.  In  all  those  dusty  reg- 
isters that  the  worms  are  eating,  there  is  not  a line  but 
made  some  hearts  leap,  or  some  tears  flow,  in  their  day. 
Still  and  dry  now,  still  and  dry ! and  the  old  tree  at  the 
window  with  no  room  for  its  branches,  has  seen  them  all 
out.  So  with  the  tomb  of  the  old  Master  of  the  old  Com- 
pany, on  which  it  drips.  His  son-restored  it  and  died,  his 
daughter  restored  it  and  died,  and  then  he  had  been  re- 
membered long  enough,  and  the  tree  took  possession  of 
him,  and  his  name  cracked  out. 

There  are  few  more  striking  indications  of  the  changes 
of  manners  and  customs  that  two  or  three  hundred  years 
have  brought  about,  than  these  deserted  churches.  Many 
of  them  are  handsome  and  costly  structures,  several  of  them 
were  designed  by  Ween,  many  of  them  arose  from  the 
ashes  of  the  great  fire,  others  of  them  outlived  the  plague 
and  the  fire  too,  to  die  a slow  death  in  these  later  days. 
No  one  can  be  sure  of  the  coming  time;  but  it  is  not  too 
much  to  say  of  it  that  it  has  no  sign  in  its  outsetting  tides, 
of  the  reflux  to  these  churches  of  their  congregations  and 
uses.  They  remain  like  the  tombs  of  the  old  citizens  who 
he  beneath  them  and  around  them.  Monuments  of  another 
age.  They  are  worth  a Sunday-exploration,  now  and  then, 
tor  they  yet  echo,  not  unharmoniously,  to  the  time  when 


90 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


the  City  of  London  really  was  London;  when  the  ’Pren- 
tices and  Trained  Bands  were  of  mark  in  the  state;  when 
even  the  Lord  Mayor  himself  was  a Reality — not  a Fiction 
conventionally  be-puffed  on  one  day  in  the  year  by  illus- 
trious friends,  who  no  less  conventionally  laugh  at  him  on 
the  remaining  three  hundred  and  sixty-four  days. 


X. 

SHY  NEIGHBOURHOODS. 

So  much  of  my  travelling  is  done  on  foot,  that  if  I cher- 
ished betting  propensities,  I should  probably  be  found  regis- 
tered in  sporting  newspapers  under  some  such  title  as  the 
Elastic  Novice,  challenging  all  eleven  stone  mankind  to 
competition  in  walking.  My  last  special  feat  was  turning 
out  of  bed  at  two,  after  a hard  day,  pedestrian  and  other- 
wise, and  walking  thirty  miles  into  the  country  to  break- 
fast. The  road  was  so  lonely  in  the  nigbt,  that  I fell 
asleep  to  the  monotonous  sound  of  my  own  feet,  doing  their 
regular  four  miles  an  hour.  Mile  after  mile  I walked, 
without  the  slightest  sense  of  exertion,  dozing  heavily  and 
dreaming  constantly.  It  was  only  when  I made  a stumble 
like  a drunken  man,  or  struck  out  into  the  road  to  avoid  a 
horseman  close  upon  me  on  the  path — who  had  no  exist- 
ence— that  I came  to  myself  and  looked  about.  The  day 
broke  mistily  (it  was  autumn  time),  and  I could  not  disem- 
barrass myself  of  the  idea  that  I had  to  climb  those  heights 
and  banks  of  cloud,  and  that  there  was  an  Alpine  Convent 
somewhere  behind  the  sun,  where  I was  going  to  breakfast. 
This  sleepy  notion  was  so  much  stronger  than  such  sub- 
stantial objects  as  villages  and  haystacks,  that,  after  the 
sun  was  up  and  bright,  and  when  I was  sufficiently  awake 
to  have  a sense  of  pleasure  in  the  prospect,  I still  occasion- 
ally caught  myself  looking  about  for  wooden  arms  to  point 
the  right  track  up  the  mountain,  and  wondering  there  was 
no  snow  yet.  It  is  a curiosity  of  broken  sleep  that  I made 
immense  q^uantities  of  verses  on  that  pedestrian  occasion 
(of  course  I never  make  any  when  I am  in  my  right 
senses),  and  that  I spoke  a certain  language  once  pretty 
familiar  to  me,  but  which  I have  nearly  forgotten  from  dis- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


91 


use,  with  fluency.  Of  both  these  phenomena  I have  such 
frequent  experience  in  the  state  between  sleeping  and  wak- 
ing, that  I sometimes  argue  with  myself  that  I know  I can- 
not be  awake,  for,  if  I were,  I should  not  be  half  so  ready. 
The  readiness  is  not  imaginary,  because  I often  recall  long 
strings  of  the  verses,  and  many  turns  of  the  fluent  speech, 
after  I am  broad  awake. 

My  walking  is  of  two  kinds : one,  straight  on  end  to  a 
definite  goal  at  a round  pace;  one,  objectless,  loitering,  and 
purely  vagabond.  In  the  latter  state,  no  gipsy  on  earth  is 
a greater  vagabond  than  myself;  it  is  so  natural  to  me,  and 
strong  with  me,  that  I think  I must  be  the  descendant,  at 
no  great  distance,  of  some  irreclaimable  tramp.^ 

One  of  the  pleasantest  things  I have  lately  met  with,  in 
a vagabond  course  of  shy  metropolitan  neighbourhoods  and 
small  shops,  is  the  fancy  of  a humble  artist,  as  exemplified 
in  two  portraits  representing  Mr.  Thomas  Sayers,  of  Great 
Britain,  and  Mr.  John  Heenan,  of  the  United  States  of 
America.  These  illustrious  men  are  highly  coloured  in 
fighting  trim,  and  fighting  attitude.  To  suggest  the  pas- 
toral and  meditative  nature  of  their  peaceful  calling,  Mr. 
Heenan  is  represented  on  emerald  sward,  with  primroses 
and  other  modest  flowers  springing  up  under  the  heels  of 
his  half-boots;  while  Mr.  Sayers  is  impelled  to  the  admin- 
istration of  his  favourite  blow,  the  Auctioneer,  by  the  si- 
lent eloquence  of  a village  church.  The  humble  homes 
of  England,  with  their  domestic  virtues  and  honeysuckle 
porches,  urge  both  heroes  to  go  in  and  win;  and  the  lark 
and  other  singing  birds  are  observable  in  the  upper  air, 
ecstatically  carolling  their  thanks  to  Heaven  for  a fight. 
On  the  whole,  the  associations  entwined  with  the  jjugilistic 
art  by  this  artist  are  much  in  the  manner  of  Izaak  Walton. 

But,  it  is  with  the  lower  animals  of  back  streets  and  by- 
ways that  my  present  purpose  rests.  For  human  notes  we 
may  return  to  such  neighbourhoods  when  leisure  and  oppor- 
tunity serve. 

Nothing  in  shy  neighbourhoods  perplexes  my  mind  more, 
than  the  bad  company  birds  keep.  Foreign  birds  often  get 
into  good  society,  but  British  birds  are  inseparable  from  low 
associates.  There  is  a whole  street  of  them  in  St.  Giles’s; 
and  I always  find  them  in  poor  and  imnioral  neighbour- 
hoods, convenient  to  the  public-house  and  the  pawnbroker’s. 
They  seem  to  lead  people  into  drinking,  and  even  the  man 


92 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


who  makes  their  cages  usually  gets  into  a chronic  state  of 
black  eye.  Why  is  this?  Also,  they  will  do  things  for 
people  in  short-skirted  velveteen  coats  with  bone  buttons, 
or  in  sleeved  waistcoats  and  fur  caps,  which  they  cannot 
be  persuaded  by  the  respectable  orders  of  society  to  under- 
take. Ill  a dirty  court  in  Spitalfields,  once,  I found  a gold- 
finch drawing  his  own  water,  and  drawing  as  much  of  it 
as  if  he  were  in  a consuming  fever  That  goldfinch  lived 
at  a bird-shop,  and  offered,  in  writing,  to  barter  himself 
against  old  clothes,  empty  bottles,  or  even  kitchen  stuff. 
Surely  a low  thing  and  a depraved  taste  in  any  finch!  I 
bought  that  goldfinch  for  money.  He  was  sent  home,  and 
hung  upon  a nail  over  against  my  table.  He  lived  outside 
a counterfeit  dwelling-house,  supposed  (as  I argued)  to 
be  a dyer’s;  otherwise  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
account  for  his  perch  sticking  out  of  the  garret  window. 
From  the  time  of  his  appearance  in  my  room,  either  he 
left  off  being  thirsty — which  was  not  in  the  bond — or  he 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  hear  his  little  bucket  drop 
back  into  his  well  when  he  let  it  go . a shock  which  in  the 
best  of  times  had  made  him  tremble.  He  drew  no  water 
but  by  stealth  and  under  the  cloak  of  night.  After  an 
-interval  of  futile  and  at  length  hopeless  expectation,  the 
merchant  who  had  educated  him  was  appealed  to.  The 
merchant  was  a bow-legged  character,  with  a flat  and  cush- 
iony nose,  like  the  last  new  strawberry.  He  wore  . a fur 
cap,  and  shorts,  and  was  of  the  velveteen  race,  velveteeny. 
He  sent  word  that  he  would  “look  round,”  He  looked 
round,  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the  room,  and  slightly 
cocked  up  his  evil  eye  at  the  goldfinch.  Instantly  a raging 
thirst  beset  that  bird;  when  it  was  appeased,  he  still  drew 
several  unnecessary  buckets  of  water;  and  finally,  leaped 
about  his  perch  and  sharpened  his  bill,  as  if  he  had  been 
to  the  nearest  wine  vaults  and  got  drunk. 

Donkeys  again.  I know  shy  neighbourhoods  where  the 
Donkey  goes  in  at  the  street  door,  and  appears  to  live  up- 
stairs, for  I have  examined  the  back-yard  from  over  the 
palings,  and  have  been  unable  to  make  him  out.  Gentility, 
nobility.  Royalty,  would  appeal  to  that  donkey  in  vain  to 
do  what  he  does  for  a costermonger.  Feed  him  with  oats 
at  the  highest  price,  put  an  infant  prince  and  princess  in  a 
pair  of  panniers  on  his  back,  adjust  his  delicate  trappings 
to  a nicety,  take  him  to  the  softest  slopes  at  Windsor,  and 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


93 


try  what  pace  you  can  get  out  of  him.  Then,  starve  him, 
harness  him  anyhow  to  a truck  with  a fiat  tray  on  it,  and 
See  him  bowl  from  Whitechapel  to  Bayswater.  There  ap- 
pears to  be  no  particular  private  understanding  between 
birds  and  donkeys,  in  a state  of  nature;  but  in  the  shy 
neighbourhood  state,  you  shall  see  them  always  in  the 
same  hands  and  always  developing  their  very  best  energies 
for  the  very  worst  company.  I have  known  a donkey — by 
sight;  we  were  not  on  speaking  terms — who  lived  over  on 
the  Surrey  side  of  London-bridge,  among  the  fastnesses  of 
Jacob’s  Island  and  Dockhead.  It  was  the  habit  of  that  ani- 
mal, when  his  services  were  not  in  immediate  requisition, 
to  go  out  alone,  idling.  I have  met  him  a mile  from  his 
place  of  residence,  loitering  about  the  streets;  and  the  ex- 
pression of  his  countenance  at  such  times  was  most  de- 
graded. He  was  attached  to  the  establishment  of  an  el- 
derly lady  who  sold  periwinkles,  and  he  used  to  stand  on 
Saturday  nights  with  a cartful  of  those  delicacies  outside  a 
gin-shop,  pricking  up  his  ears  when  a customer  came  to 
the  cart,  and  too  evidently  deriving  satisfaction  from  the 
knowledge  that  they  got  bad  measure.  His  mistress  was 
sometimes  overtaken  by  inebriety.  The  last  time  I ever 
saw  him  (about  five  years  ago)  he  was  in  circumstances  of 
difficulty,  caused  by  this  failing.  Having  been  left  alone 
with  the  cart  of  periwinkles,  and  forgotten,  he  went  off 
idling.  He  prowled  among  his  usual  low  haunts  for  some 
time,  gratifying  his  depraved  tastes,  until,  not  taking  the 
cart  into  his  calculations,  he  endeavoured  to  turn  up  a 
narrow  alley,  and  became  greatly  involved.  He  was  taken 
into  custody  by  the  police,  and,  the  Green  Yard  of  the  dis- 
trict being  near  at  hand,  was  backed  into  that  place  of 
durance.  At  that  crisis,  I encountered  him;  the  stubborn 
sense  he  evinced  of  being — not  to  compromise  the  expres- 
sion— a blackguard,  I never  saw  exceeded  in  the  human 
subject.  A flaring  candle  in  a paper  shade,  stuck  in  among 
his  periwinkles,  showed  him,  with  his  ragged  harness 
broken  and  his  cart  extensively  shattered,  twitching  his 
mouth  and  shaking  his  hanging  head,  a picture  of  disgrace 
and  obduracy.  I have  seen  boys  being  taken  to  station- 
houses,  who  were  as  like  him  as  his  own  brother. 

The  dogs  of  shy  neighbourhoods,  I observe  to  avoid 
play,  and  to  be  conscious  of  poverty.  They  avoid  work, 
too,  if  they  can,  of  course;  that  is  in  the  nature  of  all 


94 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


animals.  I have  the  pleasure  to  know  a dog  in  a back 
street  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Walworth,  who  has  greatly 
distinguished  himself  in  the  minor  drama,  and  who  takes 
his  portrait  with  him  when  he  makes  an  engagement,  for 
the  illustration  of  the  play-bill.  His  portrait  (which  is  not 
at  all  like  him)  represents  him  in  the  act  of  dragging  to 
the  earth  a recreant  Indian,  who  is  supposed  to  have  toma- 
hawked, or  essayed  to  tomahawk,  a British  officer.  The 
design  is  pure  poetry,  for  there  is  no  such  Indian  in  the 
piece,  and  no  such  incident.  He  is  a dog  of  the  New- 
foundland breed,  for  whose  honesty  I would  be  bail  to  any 
amount;  but  whose  intellectual  qualities  in  association 
with  dramatic  fiction,  I cannot  rate  high.  Indeed,  he  is 
too  honest  for  the  profession  he  has  entered.  Being  at  a 
town  in  Yorkshire  last  summer,  and  seeing  him  posted  in 
the  bill  of  the  night,  I attended  the  performance.  His 
first  scene  was  eminently  successful;  but,  as  it  occupied  a 
second  in  its  representation  (and  five  lines  in  the  bill),  it 
scarcely  afforded  ground  for  a cool  and  deliberate  judgment 
of  his  powers.  He  had  merely  to  bark,  run  on,  and  jump 
through  an  inn  window,  after  a comic  fugitive.  The  next 
scene  of  importance  to  the  fable  was  a little  marred  in  its 
interest  by  his  over-anxiety;  forasmuch  as  while  his  mas- 
ter (a  belated  soldier  in  a den  of  robbers  on  a tempestuous 
night)  was  feelingly  lamenting  the  absence  of  his  faithful 
dog,  and  laying  great  stress  on  the  fact  that  he  was  thirty 
leagues  away,  the  faithful  dog  was  barking  furiously  in  the 
prompter’s  box,  and  clearly  choking  himself  against  his 
collar.  But  it  was  in  his  greatest  scene  of  all,  that  his 
honesty  got  the  better  of  him.  He  had  to  enter  a dense 
and  trackless  forest,  on  the  trail  of  the  murderer,  and  there 
to  fly  at  the  murderer  when  he  found  him  resting  at  the 
foot  of  a tree,  with  his  victim  bound  ready  for  slaughter. 
It  was  a hot  night,  and  he  came  into  the  forest  from  an  al- 
together unexpected  direction,  in  the  sweetest  temper,  at  a 
very  deliberate  trot,  not  in  the  least  excited;  trotted  to  the 
footlights  with  his  tongue  out;  and  there  sat  down,  pant- 
ing, and  amiably  surveying  the  audience,  with  his  tail 
beating  on  the  boards,  like  a Dutch  clock.  Meanwhile  the 
murderer,  impatient  to  receive  his  doom,  was  audibly  call- 
ing to  him  “Co-o-OME  here!  ” while  the  victim,  struggling 
with  his  bonds,  assailed  him  with  the  most  injurious  ex- 
pressions. It  happened  through  these  means,  that  when 


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95 


he  was  in  course  of  time  persuaded  to  trot  up  and  rend  the 
murderer  limb  from  limb,  he  made  it  (for  dramatic  })iir~ 
poses)  a little  too  obvious  that  he  worked  out  that  awful 
retribution  by  licking  butter  off  his  blood-stained  hands. 

In  a shy  street,  behind  Long-acre  two  honest  dogs  live, 
who  perform  in  Punch’s  shows.  I may  venture  to  say  that 
I am  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  both,  and  that  I never 
saw  either  guilty  of  the  falsehood  of  failing  to  look  down 
at  the  man  inside  the  show,  during  the  whole  performance. 
The  difficulty  other  dogs  have  in  satisfying  their  minds 
about  these  dogs,  appears  to  be  never  overcome  by  time. 
The  same  dogs  must  encounter  them  over  and  over  again, 
as  they  trudge  along  in  their  off-minutes  behind  the  legs  of 
the  show  and  beside  the  drum ; but  all  dogs  seem  to  suspect 
their  frills  and  jackets,  and  to  sniff  at  them  as  if  they 
thought  those  articles  of  personal  adornment,  an  eruption 
— a something  in  the  nature  of  mange,  perhaps.  From  this 
Covent-garden  window  of  mine  I noticed  a country  dog, 
only  the  other  day,  who  had  come  up  to  Covent-garden 
Market  under  a cart,  and  had  broken  his  cord,  an  end  of 
which  he  still  trailed  along  with  him.  He  loitered  about 
the  corners  of  the  four  streets  commanded  by  my  window; 
and  bad  London  dogs  came  up,  and  told  him  lies  that  he 
didn’t  believe;  and  worse  London  dogs  came  up,  and  made 
proposals  to  him  to  go  and  steal  in  the  market,  which  his 
principles  rejected;  and  the  ways  of  the  town  confused 
him,  and  he  crept  aside  and  lay  down  in  a doorway.  He 
had  scarcely  got  a wink  of  sleep,  when  up  comes  Punch 
with  Toby.  He  was  darting  to  Toby  for  consolation  and 
advice,  when  he  saw  the  frill,  and  stopped,  in  the  middle 
of  the  street,  appalled.  The  show  was  pitched,  Toby  re- 
tired behind  the  drapery,  the  audience  formed,  the  drum 
and  pipes  struck  up.  My  country  dog  remained  immovable, 
intently  staring  at  these  strange  appearances,  until  Toby 
opened  the  drama  by  appearing  on  his  ledge,  and  to  him 
entered  Punch,  who  put  a tobacco-pipe  into  Toby’s  mouth. 
At  this  spectacle,  the  country  dog  threw  up  his  head,  gave 
one  terrible  howl,  and  fled  due  west. 

We  talk  of  men  keeping  dogs,  but  we  might  often  talk 
more  expressively  of  dogs  keeping  men.  I know  a bulk 
dog  in  a shy  corner  of  Hammersmith  who  keeps  a man. 
He  keeps  him  up  a yard,  and  makes  him  go  to  public- 
houses  and  lay  wagers  on  him,  and  obliges  him  to  lean 


9G  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

against  posts  and  look  at  liim,  and  forces  him  to  neglect 
work  for  him,  and  keeps  him  under  rigid  coercion.  I once 
knew  a fancy  terrier  who  kept  a gentleman — a gentleman 
who  had  been  brought  up  at  Oxford,  too.  The  dog  kept 
the  gentleman  entirely  for  his  glorification,  and  the  gentle- 
man never  talked  about  anything  but  the  terrier.  This, 
however,  was  not  in  a shy  neighbourhood,  and  is  a digres- 
sion consequently. 

There  are  a great  many  dogs  in  shy  neighbourhoods,  who 
keep  boys.  I have  my  eye  on  a mongrel  in  Somerstown 
who  keeps  three  boys.  He  feigns  that  he  can  bring  down 
sparrows,  and  unburrow  rats  (he  can  do  neither),  and  he 
takes  the  boys  out  on  sporting  pretences  into  all  sorts  of 
suburban  fields.  He  has  likewise  made  them  believe  that 
he  possesses  some  mysterious  knowledge  of  the  art  of  fish- 
ing, and  they  consider  themselves  incompletely  equipped 
for  the  Hampstead  ponds,  with  a pickle-jar  and  a wide- 
mouthed bottle,  unless  he  is  with  them  and  barking  tre- 
mendously. There  is  a dog  residing  in  the  Borough  of 
Southwark  who  keeps  a blind  man.  He  may  be  seen,  most 
days,  in  Oxford-street,  haling  the  blind  man  away  on  ex- 
peditions wholly  uncontemplated  by  and  unintelligible  to, 
the  man:  wholly  of  the  dog’s  conception  and  execution. 
Contrariwise,  when  the  man  has  projects,  the  dog  will  sit 
down  in  a crowded  thoroughfare  and  meditate.  I saw  him 
yesterday,  wearing  the  money-tray  like  an  easy  collar,  in- 
stead of  offering  it  to  the  public,  taking  the  man  against 
his  will,  on  the  invitation  of  a disreputable  cur,  apparently 
to  visit  a dog  at  Harrow — he  was  so  intent  on  that  direc- 
tion. The  north  wall  of  Burlington  House  Gardens,  be- 
tween the  Arcade  and  the  Albany,  offers  a shy  spot  for  ap- 
pointments among  blind  men  at  about  two  or  three  o’clock 
in  the  afternoon.  They  sit  (very  uncomfortably)  on  a 
sloping  stone  there,  and  compare  notes.  Their  dogs  may 
always  be  observed  at  the  same  time,  openly  disparaging 
the  men  they  keep,  to  one  another,  and  settling  where  they 
shall  respectively  take  their  men  when  they  begin  to  move 
again.  At  a small  butcher’s,  in  a shy  neighbourhood 
(there  is  no  reason  for  suppressing  the  name;  it  is  by  Not- 
ting-hill,  and  gives  upon  the  district  called  the  Potteries), 
I know  a shaggy  black  and  white  dog  who  keeps  a drover. 
He  is  a dog  of  an  easy  disposition,  and  too  frequently  al- 
lows this  drover  to  get  drunk.  On  these  occasions,  it  is  i lie 


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97 


dog’s  custom  to  sit  outside  the  public-house,  keeping  his 
eye  on  a few  sheep,  and  thinking.  I have  seen  him  with, 
six  sheep,  plainly  casting  up  in  his  mind  how  many  he  be- 
gan with  when  he  left  the  market,  and  at  what  places  he 
has  left  the  rest.  I have  seen  him  perplexed  by  not  being 
able  to  account  to  himself  for  certain  particular  sheep.  A 
light  has  gradually  broken  on  him,  he  has  remembered  at 
what  butcher’s  he  left  them,  and  in  a burst  of  grave  satis- 
faction has  caught  a fly  off  his  nose,  and  shown  himself 
much  relieved.  If  I could  at  any  time  have  doubted  the 
fact  that  it  was  he  who  kept  the  drover,  and  not  the  drover 
who  kept  him,  it  would  have  been  abundantly  proved  by  his 
way  of  taking  undivided  charge  of  the  six  sheep,  when  the 
drover  came  out  besmeared  with  red  ochre  and  beer,  and 
gave  him  wrong  directions,  which  he  calmly  disregarded. 
He  has  taken  the  sheep  entirely  into  his  own  hands,  has 
merely  remarked  with  respectful  firmness,  “ That  instruc- 
tion would  place  them  under  an  omnibus;  you  had  better 
confine  your  attention  to  yourself — you  will  want  it  all;  ” 
and  has  driven  his  charge  away,  with  an  intelligence  of 
ears  and  tail,  and  a knowledge  of  business,  that  has  left 
his  lout  of  a man  very,  very  far  behind. 

As  the  dogs  of  shy  neighbourhoods  usually  betray  a 
slinking  consciousness  of  being  in  poor  circumstances — for 
the  most  part  manifested  in  an  aspect  of  anxiety,  an  awk- 
wardness in  their  play,  and  a misgiving  that  somebody  is 
going  to  harness  them  to  something,  to  pick  up  a living — 
so  the  cats  of  shy  neighbourhoods  exhibit  a strong  tend- 
ency to  relapse  into  barbarism.  Not  only  are  they  made 
selfishly  ferocious  by  ruminating  on  the  surplus  population 
around  them,  and  on  the  densely  crowded  state  of  all  the 
avenues  to  cat’s  meat;  not  only  is  there  a moral  and  polit- 
ico-economical haggardness  in  them,  traceable  to  these  re- 
flections; but  they  evince  a physical  deterioration.  Their 
linen  is  not  clean,  and  is  wretchedly  got  up;  their  black 
turns  rusty,  like  old  mourning;  they  wear  very  indifferent 
fur;  and  take  to  the  shabbiest  cotton  velvet,  instead  of 
silk  velvet.  I am  on  terms  of  recognition  with  several 
small  streets  of  cats,  about  the  Obelisk  in  Saint  George’s 
Fields,  and  also  in  the  vicinity  of  Clerkenwell-green,  and 
also  in  the  back  settlements  of  Drury-lane.  In  appearance, 
they  are  very  like  the  women  among  whom  they  live.  Thej" 
seem  to  turn  out  of  their  unwholesome  beds  into  the  street, 


98 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


without  any  preparation.  They  leave  their  young  families 
to  stagger  about  the  gutters,  unassisted,  while  they  frouzily 
quarrel  and  swear  and  scratch  and  spit,  at  street  corners. 
In  particular,  I remark  that  when  they  are  about  to  in- 
crease their  families  (an  event  of  frequent  recurrence)  the 
resemblance  is  strongly  expressed  in  a certain  dusty  dowdi- 
ness, down-at-heel  self-neglect,  and  general  giving  up  of 
things.  I cannot  honestly  report  that  I have  ever  seen  a 
feline  matron  of  this  class  washing  her  face  when  in  an  in- 
teresting condition. 

Not  to  prolong  these  notes  of  uncommercial  travel  among 
the  lower  animals  of  shy  neighbourhoods,  by  dwelling  at 
length  upon  the  exasperated  moodiness  of  the  tom-cats,  and 
their  resemblance  in  many  respects  to  a man  and  a brother, 
I will  come  to  a close  with  a word  on  the  fowls  of  the  same 
localities. 

That  anything  born  of  an  egg  and  invested  with  wings, 
should  have  got  to  the  pass  that  it  hops  contentedly  down 
a ladder  into  a cellar,  and  calls  that  going  home,  is  a cir- 
cumstance so  amazing  as  to  leave  one  nothing  more  in  this 
connection  to  wonder  at.  Otherwise  I might  wonder  at  the 
completeness  with  which  these  fowls  have  become  sepa- 
rated from  all  the  birds  of  the  air — have  taken  to  grovelling 
in  bricks  and  mortar  and  mud — have  forgotten  all  about  live 
trees,  and  make  roosting-places  of  shop-boards,  barrows, 
oyster-tubs,  bulk-heads,  and  door-scrapers.  I wonder  at 
nothing  concerning  them,  and  take  them  as  they  are.  I 
accept  as  products  of  Nature  and  things  of  course,  a re- 
duced Bantam  family  of  my  acquaintance  in  the  Hackney- 
road,  who  are  incessantly  at  the  pawnbroker’s.  I cannot 
say  that  they  enjoy  themselves,  for  they  are  of  a melan- 
choly temperament;  but  what  enjoyment  they  are  capable 
of,  they  derive  from  crowding  together  in  the  pawnbroker’s 
side-entry.  Here,  they  are  always  to  be  found  in  a feeble 
flutter,  as  if  they  were  newly  come  down  in  the  world,  and 
were  afraid  of  being  identified.  I know  a low  fellow,  origi- 
nally of  a good  family  from  Dorking,  who  takes  his  whole 
establishment  of  wives,  in  single  file,  in  at  the  door  of  the 
Jug  Department  of  a disorderly  tavern  near  the  Haymar- 
ket,  manoeuvres  them  among  the  company’s  legs,  emerges 
with  them  at  the  Bottle  Entrance,  and  so  passes  his  life ; 
seldom,  in  the  season,  going  to  bed  before  two  in  the  morn- 
ing. Over  Waterloo-bridge,  there  is  a shabby  old  speckled 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


99 


couple  (they  belong  to  the  wooden  French-bedstead,  wash- 
ing-stand, and  towel-horsemaking  trade),  who  are  always 
trying  to  get  in  at  the  door  of  a chapel.  Whether  the  old 
lady,  under  a delusion  reminding  one  of  Mrs.  Southcott, 
has  an  idea  of  entrusting  an  egg  to  that  particular  denom- 
ination, or  merely  understands  that  she  has  no  business  in 
the  building  and  is  consequently  frantic  to  enter  it,  I can- 
not determine;  but  she  is  constantly  endeavouring  to  un- 
dermine the  principal  door : while  her  partner,  who  is  in- 
firm upon  his  legs,  walks  up  and  down,  encouraging  her 
and  defying  the  Universe.  But,  the  family  I have  been 
best  acquainted  with,  since  the  removal  from  this  trying 
sphere  of  a Chinese  circle  at  Brentford,  reside  in  the 
densest  part  of  Bethnal- green.  Their  abstraction  from  the 
objects  among  which  they  live,  or  rather  their  conviction 
that  those  objects  have  all  come  into  existence  in  express 
subservience  to  fowls,  has  so  enchanted  me,  that  I have 
made  them  the  subject  of  many  journeys  at  divers  hours. 
After  careful  observation  of  the  two  lords  and  the  ten  la- 
dies of  whom  this  family  consists,  I have  come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  their  opinions  are  represented  by  the  leading 
lord  and  leading  lady : the  latter,  as  I judge,  an  aged  per- 
sonage, afflicted  with  a paucity  of  feather  and  visibility  of 
quill,  that  gives  her  the  appearance  of  a bundle  of  offlce 
pens.  When  a railway  goods  van  that  would  crush  an 
elephant  comes  round  the  corner,  tearing  over  these  fowls, 
they  emerge  unharmed  from  under  the  horses,  perfectly 
satisfied  that  the  whole  rush  was  a passing  property  in  the 
air,  which  may  have  left  something  to  eat  behind  it.  They 
look  upon  old  shoes,  wrecks  of  kettles  and  saucepans,  and 
fragments  of  bonnets,  as  a kind  of  meteoric  discharge,  for 
fowls  to  peck  at.  Peg-tops  and  hoops  they  account,  I 
think,  as  a sort  of  hail;  shuttlecocks,  as  rain,  or  dew. 
Gaslight  comes  quite  as  natural  to  them  as  any  other  light; 
and  I have  more  than  a suspicion  that,  in  the  minds  of  the 
two  lords,  the  early  public-house  at  the  corner  has  super- 
seded the  sun.  I have  established  it  as  a certain  fact,  that 
they  always  begin  to  crow  when  the  public-house  shutters 
begin  to  be  taken  down,  and  that  they  salute  the  potboy, 
the  instant  he  appears  to  perform  that  duty,  as  if  he  were 
Phoebus  in  person. 


100 


THE  UJStCOMMEliClAE  TUAVELLEK. 


XL 

TRAMPS. 

The  chance  use  of  the  word  Tramp  ’’  in  my  last  paper, 
brought  that ' numerous  fraternity  so  vividly  before  my 
mind’s  eye,  that  I had  no  sooner  laid  down  my  pen  than  a 
compulsion  was  upon  me  to  take  it  up  again,  and  make 
notes  of  the  Tramps  whom  I perceived  on  all  the  summer 
roads  in  all  directions. 

Whenever  a tramp  sits  down  to  rest  by  the  wayside,  he 
sits  with  his  legs  in  a dry  ditch;  and  whenever  he  goes  to 
sleep  (which  is  very  often  indeed),  he  goes  to  sleep  on 
his  back.  Yonder,  by  the  high  road,  glaring  white  in 
the  bright  sunshine,  lies,  on  the  dusty  bit  of  turf  under  the 
bramble-bush  that  fences  the  coppice  from  the  highway, 
the  tramp  of  the  order  savage,  fast  asleep.  He  lies  on  the 
broad  of  his  back,  with  his  face  turned  up  to  the  sky,  and 
one  of  his  ragged  arms  loosely  thrown  across  his  face.  His 
bundle  (what  can  be  the  contents  of  that  mysterious  bundle, 
to  make  it  worth  his  while  to  carry  it  about?)  is  thrown 
down  beside  him,  and  the  waking  woman  with  him  sits 
with  her  legs  in  the  ditch,  and  her  back  to  the  road.  She 
wears  her  bonnet  rakishly  perched  op  the  front  of  her  head, 
to  shade  her  face  froni  the  sun  in  walking,  and  she  ties  her 
skirts  round  her  in  conventionally  tight  tramp-fashion 
with  a sort  of  apron.  You  can  seldom  catch  sight  of  her, 
resting  thus,  without  seeing  her  in  a despondently  defiant 
manner  doing  something  to  her  hair  or  her  bonnet,  and 
glancing  at  you  between  her  fingers.  She  does  not  often 
go  to  sleep  herself  in  the  daytime,  but  will  sit  for  any 
length  of  time  beside  the  man.  And  his  slumberous  pro- 
pensities would  not  seem  to  be  referable  to  the  fatigue  of 
carrying  the  bundle,  for  she  carries  it  much  oftener  and 
further  than  he.  When  they  are  afoot,  you  will  mostly 
find  him  slouching  on  ahead,  in  a gruff  temper,  while  she 
lags  heavily  behind  with  the  burden.  He  is  given  to  per- 
sonally correcting  her,  too — which  phase  of  his  character 
develops  itself  oftenest,  on  benches  outside  alehouse  doors 
— and  she  appears  to  become  strongly  attached  to  him  for 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


101 


these  reasons;  it  may  usually  be  noticed  that  when  the  poor 
creature  has  a bruised  face,  she  is  the  most  affectionate. 
He  has  no  occupation  whatever,  this  order  of  tramp,  and 
has  no  object  whatever  in  going  anywhere.  He  will  some- 
times call  himself  a brickmaker,  or  a sawyer,  but  only  when 
he  takes  an  imaginative  flight.  He  generally  represents 
himself,  in  a vague  way,  as  looking  out  for  a job  of  work; 
but  he  never  did  work,  he  never  does,  and  he  never  will. 
It  is  a favourite  fiction  with  him,  however  (as  if  he  were 
the  most  industrious  character  on  earth),  that  you  never 
work;  and  as  he  goes  past  your  garden  and  sees  you  look- 
ing at  your  flowers,  you  will  overhear  him  growl  with  a 
strong  sense  of  contrast,  “ You  are  a lucky  hidle  devil,  you 
are ! ” 

The  slinking  tramp  is  of  the  same  hopeless  order,  and 
has  the  same  injured  conviction  on  him  that  you  were  born 
to  whatever  you  possess,  and  never  did  anything  to  get  it : 
but  he  is  of  a less  audacious  disposition.  He  will  stop  be- 
fore your  gate,  and  say  to  his  female  companion  with  an 
air  of  constitutional  humility  and  propitiation — to  edify 
any  one  who  may  be  within  hearing  behind  a blind  or  a 
bush— This  is  a sweet  spot,  ainH  it?  A lovelly  spot! 
And  I wonder  if  they’d  give  two  poor  footsore  travellers 
like  me  and  you,  a drop  of  fresh  water  out  of  such  a pretty 
gen-teel  crib?  We’d  take  it  wery  koind  on  ’em,  wouldn’t 
us?  Wery  koind,  upon  my  word,  us  would?  ” He  has  a 
quick  sense  of  a dog  in  the  vicinity,  and  will  extend  his 
modestly-injured  propitiation  to  the  dog  chained  up  in  your 
yard;  remarking,  as  he  slinks  at  the  yard  gate,  Ah!  You 
are  a foine  breed  o’  dog,  too,  and  you  ain’t  kep  for  nothink ! 
I’d  take  it  wery  koind  o’  your  master  if  he’d  elp  a traveller 
and  his  woife  as  envies  no  gentlefolk  their  good  fortun,  wi’ 
a bit  o’  your  broken  wittles.  He’d  never  know  the  want 
of  it,  nor  more  would  you.  Don’t  bark  like  that,  at  poor 
persons  as  never  done  you  no  arm;  the  poor  is  downtrod- 
den and  broke  enough  without  that;  O don’t!  ” He  gen- 
erally heaves  a prodigious  sigh  in  moving  away,  and  always 
looks  up  the  lane  and  down  the  lane,  and  up  the  road  and 
down  the  road,  before  going  on. 

Both  of  these  orders  of  tramp  are  of  a very  robust  habit; 
let  the  hard-working  labourer  at  whose  cottage-door  they 
prowl  and  beg,  have  the  ague  never  so  badly,  these  tramps 
are  sure  to  be  in  good  health. 


102 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


There  is  another  kind  of  tramp,  whom  you  encounter 
tills  bright  summer  day — say,  on  a road  with  the  sea-breeze 
making  its  dust  lively,  and  sails  of  ships  in  the  blue  dis- 
tance beyond  the  slope  of  Down.  As  you  walk  enjoyingly 
on,  you  descry  in  the  perspective  at  the  bottom  of  a steep 
hill  up  which  your  way  lies,  a figure  that  appears  to  be  sit- 
ting airily  on  a gate,  whistling  in  a cheerful  and  disengaged 
manner.  As  you  approach  nearer  to  it,  you  observe  the 
figure  to  slide  down  from  the  gate,  to  desist  from  whistling, 
to  uncock  its  hat,  to  become  tender  of  foot,  to  depress  its 
head  and  elevate  its  shoulders,  and  to  present  all  the  char- 
acteristics of  profound  despondency.  Arriving  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hill  and  coming  close  to  the  figure,  you  observe 
it  to  be  the  figure  of  a shabby  young  man.  He  is  moving 
painfully  forward,  in  the  direction  in  which  you  are  going, 
and  his  mind  is  so  preoccupied  with  his  misfortunes  that 
he  is  not  aware  of  your  approach  until  you  are  close  upon 
him  at  the  hill-foot.  When  he  is  aware  of  you,  you  dis- 
cover him  to  be  a remarkably  well-behaved  young  man,  and 
a remarkably  well-spoken  young  man.  You  know  him  to 
be  well-behaved,  by  his  respectful  manner  of  touching  his 
hat : you  know  him  to  be  well-spoken,  by  his  smooth  man- 
ner of  expressing  himself.  He  says  in  a flowing  confiden- 
tial voice,  and  without  punctuation,  I ask  your  pardon  sir 
but  if  you  would  excuse  the  liberty  of  being  so  addressed 
upon  the  public  I way  by  one  who  is  almost  reduced  to  rags 
though  it  as  not  always  been  so  and  by  no  fault  of  his  own 
but  through  ill  elth  in  his  family  and  many  unmerited  suf- 
ferings it  would  be  a great  obligation  sir  to  know  the  time.” 
You  give  the  well-spoken  young  man  the  time.  The  well- 
spoken  young  man,  keeping  well  up  with  you,  resumes: 
1 am  aware  sir  that  it  is  a liberty  to  intrude  a further 
question  on  a gentleman  walking  for  his  entertainment  but 
might  I make  so  bold  as  ask  the  favour  of  the  way  to  Dover 
sir  and  about  the  distance?  ” You  inform  the  well-spoken 
young  man  that  the  way  to  Dover  is  straight  on,  and  the 
distance  some  eighteen  miles.  The  well-spoken  young  man 
becomes  greatly  agitated.  In  the  condition  to  which  I 
am  reduced,”  says  he,  “I  could  not  ope  to  reach  Dover 
before  dark  even  if  my  shoes  were  in  a state  to  take  me 
there  or  my  feet  were  in  a state  to  old  out  over  the  flinty 
road  and  were  not  on  the  bare  ground  of  which  any  gentle- 
man has  the  means  to  satisfy  himself  by  looking  Sir  may 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  103 

I take  the  liberty  of  speaking  to  you?  As  the  well-spoken 
young  man  keeps  so  well  up  with  you  that  you  can’t  pre- 
vent his  taking  the  liberty  of  speaking  to  you,  he  goes  on, 
with  fluency : Sir  it  is  not  begging  that  is  my  intention 

for  I was  brought  up  by  the  best  of  mothers  and  begging 
is  not  niy  trade  I should  not  know  sir  how  to  follow  it  as 
atrade  if  such  were  my  shameful  wishes  for  the  best  of 
mothers  long  taught  otherwise  and  in  the  best  of  omes 
though  now  reduced  to  take  the  present  liberty  on  the 
Iway  Sir  my  business  was  the  law-stationering  and  I was 
favourably  known  to  the  Solicitor-General  the  Attorney- 
General  the  majority  of  the  Judges  and  the  ole  of  the  legal 
profession  but  through  ill  elth  in  my  family  and  the  treach- 
ery of  a friend  for  whom  I became  security  and  he  no  other 
than  my  own  wife’s  brother  the  brother  of  my  own  wife  I 
^ was  cast  forth  with  my  tender  partner  and  three  young  chil- 
dren not  to  beg  for  I will  sooner  die  of  deprivation  but  to 
make  my  way  to  the  seaport  town  of  Dover  where  I have  a 
i relative  i in  respect  not  only  that  will  assist  me  but  that 
• would  trust  me  with  untold  gold  Sir  in  appier  times  and 
hare  this  calamity  fell  upon  me  1 made  for  my  amusement 
when  I little  thought  that  I should  ever  need  it  excepting 
for  my  air  this  ” — here  the  well-spoken  young  man  put  his 
hand  into  his  breast — ^^this  comb!  Sir  I implore  you  in 
ithe  name  of  charity  to  purchase  a tortoiseshell  comb  which 
is  a genuine  article  at  any  price  that  your  humanity  may 
put  upon  it  and  may  the  blessings  of  a ouseless  family 
awaiting  with  beating  arts  the  return  of  a husband  and  a 
father  from  Dover  upon  the  cold  stone  seats  of  London- 
bridge  ever  attend  you  Sir  may  I take  the  liberty  of  speak- 
ing to  you  I implore  you  to  buy  this  comb ! ” By  this  time, 
being  a reasonably  good  walker,  you  will  have  been  too 
,much  for  the  well-spoken  young  man,  who  will  stop  short 
,rnd  express  his  disgust  and  his  want  of  breath,  in  a long 
expectoration,  as  you  leave  him  behind. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  same  walk,  on  the  same  bright 
mmmer  day,  at  the  corner  of  the  next  little  town  or  vil- 
-age,  you  may  find  another  kind  of  tramp,  embodied  in  the 
persons  of  a most  exemplary  couple  whose  only  improvi- 
lence  appears  to  have  been,  that  they  spent  the  last  of 
-heir  little  All  on  soap.  They  are  a man  and  woman,  spot- 
less to  behold — John  Anderson,  with  the  frost  on  his  short 
imock- frock  instead  of  his  ^^pow,”  attended  by  Mrs.  Am' 


104 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


derson.  John  is  over-ostentatious  of  the  frost  upon  his 
raiment,  and  wears  a curious  and,  you  would  say,  an  al- 
most unnecessary  demonstration  of  girdle  of  white  linen 
wound  about  his  waist — a girdle,  snowy  as  Mrs.  Anderson’s 
apron.  This  cleanliness  was  the  expiring  effort  of  the  re- 
spectable couple,  and  nothing  then  remained  to  Mr.  Ander- 
son but  to  get  chalked  upon  his  spade  in  snow-white  copy- 
book characters,  hungry!  and  to  sit  down  here.  Yes;  one 
thing  more  remained  to  Mr.  Anderson — his  character; 
Monarchs  could  not  deprive  him  of  his  hard-earned  char- 
acter. Accordingly,  as  you  come  up  with  this  spectacle  of 
virtue  in  distress,  Mrs.  Anderson  rises,  and  with  a decent 
curtsey  presents  for  your  consideration  a certificate  from  a 
Doctor  of  Divinity,  the  reverend  the  Vicar  of  Upper  Dodg- 
ington,  who  informs  his  Christian  friends  and  all  whom  it 
may  concern  that  the  bearers,  John  Anderson  and  lawful 
wife,  are  persons  to  whom  you  cannot  be  too  liberal.  This 
benevolent  pastor  omitted  no  work  of  his  hands  to  fit  the 
good  couple  out,  for  with  half  an  eye  you  can  recognise  his 
autograph  on  the  spade. 

Another  class  of  tramp  is  a man,  the  most  valuable  part 
of  whose  stock-in-trade  is  a highly  perplexed  demeanour. 
He  is  got  up  like  a countryman,  and  you  will  often  come 
upon  the  poor  fellow,  while  he  is  endeavouring  to  decipher 
the  inscription  on  a milestone— -quite  a fruitless  endeavour, 
for  he  cannot  read.  He  asks  your  pardon,  he  truly  does 
(he  is  very  slow  of  speech,  this  tramp,  and  he  looks  in  a 
bewildered  way  all  round  the  prospect  while  he  talks  to 
you),  but  all  of  us  shold  do  as  we  wold  be  done  by,  and 
he’ll  take  it  kind,  if  you’ll  put  a power  man  in  the  right 
road  fur  to  jine  his  eldest  son  as  has  broke  his  leg  bad  in 
the  masoning,  and  is  in  this  heere  Orspit’l  as  is  wrote  down 
by  Squire  Pouncerby’s  own  hand  as  wold  not  tell  a lie  fur 
no  man.  He  then  produces  from  under  his  dark  frock 
(being  always  very  slow  and  perplexed)  a neat  but  worn 
old  leathern  purse,  from  which  he  takes  a scrap  of  paper. 
On  this  scrap  of  paper  is  written,  by  Squire  Poiincerby,  of 
The  Grove,  Please  to  direct  the  Bearer,  a poor  but  very 
worthy  man,  to  the  Sussex  County  Hospital,  near  Brigh- 
ton ” — a matter  of  some  difficulty  at  the  moment,  seeing 
that  the  request  comes  suddenly  upon  you  in  the  depths  of 
Hertfordshire.  The  more  you  endeavour  to  indicate  where*, 
Brighton  is — when  you  have  with  the  greatest  diificulty 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


105 


remembered — the  less  the  devoted  father  can  be  made  to 
comprehend,  and  the  more  obtusely  he  stares  at  the  pros- 
pect; whereby,  being  reduced  to  extremity,  you  recommend 
the  faithful  parent  to  begin  by  going  to  St.  Albans,  and 
present  him  with  half-a-crown.  It  does  him  good,  no 
doubt,  but  scarcely  helps  him  forward,  since  you  find  him 
lying  drunk  that  same  evening  in  the  wheelwright’s  sawpit 
under  the  shed  where  the  felled  trees  are,  opposite  the 
sign  of  the  Three  Jolly  Hedgers. 

But,  the  most  vicious,  by  far,  of  all  the  idle  tramps,  is 
the  tramp  who  pretends  to  have  been  a gentleman.  Edu- 
cated,” he  writes,  from  the  village  beer-shop  in  pale  ink  of 
a ferruginous  complexion;  educated  at  Trin.  Coll.  Cam. 
—nursed  in  the  lap  of  affluence — once  in  my  small  way  the 
pattron  of  the  Muses,”  &c.  &c.  &c. — surely  a sympathetic 
inind  will  not  withhold  a trifle,  to  help  him  on  to  the  mar- 
ket-town where  he  thinks  of  giving  a Lecture  to  the  fruges 
consumere  nati,  on  things  in  general?  This  shameful  creat- 
ure lolling  about  hedge  tap-rooms  in  his  ragged  clothes, 
now  so  far  from  being  black  that  they  look  as  if  they  never 
can  have  been  black,  is  more  selfish  and  insolent  than  even 
the  savage  tramp.  He  would  sponge  on  the  poorest  boy 
for  a farthing,  and  spurn  him  when  he  had  got  it;  he 
would  interpose  (if  he  could  get  anything  by  it)  between 
the  baby  and  the  mother’s  breast.  So  much  lower  than  the 
company  he  keeps,  for  his  maudlin  assumption  of  being 
higher,  this  pitiless  rascal  blights  the  summer  road  as  he 
maunders  on  between  the  luxuriant  hedges : where  (to  my 
thinking)  even  the  wild  convolvulus  and  rose  and  sweet- 
briar,  are  the  worse  for  his  going  by,  and  need  time  to  re- 
cover from  the  taint  of  him  in  the  air. 

The  young  fellows  who  trudge  along  barefoot,  five  or  six 
together,  their  boots  slung  over  their  shoulders,  their  shabby 
bundles  under  their  arms,  their  sticks  newly  cut  from  some 
roadside  wood,  are  not  eminently  prepossessing,  but  are 
much  less  objectionable.  There  is  a tramp-fellowship 
among  them.  They  pick  one  another  up  at  resting  sta- 
tions, and  go  on  in  companies.  They  always  go  at  a fast 
swing— though  they  generally  limp  too — and  there  is  in- 
variably one  of  the  company  who  has  much  ado  to  keep  up 
with  the  rest.  They  generally  talk  about  horses,  and  any 
other  means  of  locomotion  than  walking:  or,  one  of  the 
company  relates  some  recent  experiences  of  the  road— 


106 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


which  are  always  disputes  and  difficulties.  As  for  example. 

So  as  I’m  a standing  at  the  pump  in  the  market,  blest  if 
there  don’t  come  up  a Beadle,  and  he  ses,  ' Mustn’t  stand 
here,’  he  ses.  ‘ Why  not?  ’ I ses.  ‘ No  beggars  allowed  in 
this  town,’  he  ses.  ^ Who’s  a beggar?  ’ I ses.  ‘ You  are,’ 
he  ses.  ‘ Who  ever  see  me  beg?  Did  you  ? ’ I ses.  ‘ Then 
you’re  a tramp,’  he  ses.  ‘ I’d  rather  be  that  than  a Bea- 
dle,’ I ses.”  (The  company  express  great  approval.) 

Would  you,’  he  ses  to  me.  ‘Yes  I would,’  I ses  to 
him.  ‘Well,’  he  ses,  ‘anyhow,  get  out  of  this  town.’ 
‘ Why,  blow  your  little  town ! ’ I ses,  ‘ who  wants  to  be 
in  it?  Wot  does  your  dirty  little  town  mean  by  cornin’ 
and  stickin’  itself  in  the  road  to  anywhere?  Why  don’t 
you  get  a shovel  and  a barrer,  and  clear  your  town  out 
o’  people’s  way?  ’ ” (The  company  expressing  the  high- 
est approval  and  laughing  aloud,  they  all  go  down  the 
hill.) 

Then,  there  are  the  tramp  handicraft  men.  Are  they 
not  all  over  England,  in  this  Midsummer  time?  Where 
does  the  lark  sing,  the  corn  grow,  the  mill  turn,  the  river 
run,  and  they  are  not  among  the  lights  and  shadows,  tink- 
ering, chair-mending,  umbrella-mending,  clock-mending, 
knife-grinding?  Surely,  a pleasant  thing,  if  we  were  in 
that  condition  of  life,  to  grind  our  way  through  Kent,  Sus- 
sex, and  Surrey.  For  the  worst  six  weeks  or  so,  we  should 
see  the  sparks  we  ground  off,  fiery  bright  against  a back- 
ground of  green  wheat  and  green  leaves.  A little  later, 
and  the  ripe  harvest  would  pale  our  sparks  from  red  to  yel- 
low, until  we  got  the  dark  newly-turned  land  for  a back- 
ground again,  and  they  were  red  once  more.  By  that  time, 
we  should  have  ground  our  way  to  the  sea  cliffs,  and  the 
whirr  of  our  wheel  would  be  lost  in  the  breaking  of  the 
waves.  Our  next  variety  in  sparks  would  be  derived  from 
contrast  with  the  gorgeous  medley  of  colours  in  the  au- 
tumn woods,  and,  by  the  time  we  had  ground  our  w*ay 
round  to  the  healthy  lands  between  Reigate  and  Croydon, 
doing  a prosperous  stroke  of  business  all  along,  we  should 
show  like  a little  firework  in  the  light  frosty  air,  and  be 
the  next  best  thing  to  the  blacksmith’s  forge.  Very  agree- 
able, too,  to  go  on  a chair-mending  tour.  What  judges  we 
should  be  of  rushes,  and  how  knowingly  (with  a sheaf  and 
a bottomless  chair  at  our  back)  we  should  lounge  on 
bridges,  looking  over  at  osier-beds.  Among  all  the  iiiiiu- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


107 


merable  occupations  that  cannot  possibly  be  transacted 
without  the  assistance  of  lookers  on,  chair-mending  may 
take  a station  in  the  first  rank.  VP’hen  we  sat  down  with 
our  backs  against  the  barn  or  the  public-house,  and  began 
to  mend,  what  a sense  of  popularity  would  grow  upon  us. 
When  all  the  children  came  to  look  at  us,  and  the  tailor, 
and  the  general  dealer,  and  the  farmer  who  had  been  giv- 
ing a small  order  at  the  little  saddler’s,  and  the  groom 
from  the  great  house,  and  the  publican,  and  even  the  two 
skittle-players  (and  here  note  that,  howsoever  busy  all  the 
rest  of  village  human-kind  may  be,  there  will  always  be 
two  people  with  leisure  to  play  at  skittles,  wherever  village 
skittles  are),  what  encouragement  would  be  on  us  to  plait 
and  weave ! No  one  looks  at  us  while  we  plait  and  weave 
these  words.  Clock-mending  again.  Except  for  the  slight 
inconvenience  of  carrying  a clock  under  our  arm,  and  the 
monotony  of  making  the  bell  go,  whenever  we  came  to  a 
human  habitation,  what  a pleasant  privilege  to  give  a voice 
to  th^  dumb  cottage-clock,  and  set  it  talking  to  the  cottage 
family  again.  Likewise  we  foresee  great  interest  in  going 
round  by  the  park  plantations,  under  the  overhanging 
boughs  (hares,  rabbits,  partridges,  and  pheasants,  scudding 
like  mad  across  and  across  the  chequered  ground  before 
us),  and  so  over  the  park  ladder,  and  through  the  wood, 
until  we  came  to  the  Keeper’s  lodge.  Then,  would  the 
Keeper  be  discoverable  at  his  door,  in  a deep  nest  of  leaves, 
smoking  his  pipe.  Then,  on  our  accosting  him  in  the  way 
of  our  trade,  would  he  call  to  Mrs.  Keeper,  respecting 
^‘t’ould  clock”  in  the  kitchen.  Then,  would  Mrs.  Keeper 
ask  us  into  the  lodge,  and  on  due  examination  we  should 
offer  to  make  a good  job  of  it  for  eighteenpence;  which 
'offer,  being  accepted,  would  set  us  tinkling  and  clinking 
among  the  chubby  awe-struck  little  Keepers  for  an  hour 
and  more.  So  completely  to  the  family’s  satisfaction 
would  we  achieve  our  work,  that  the  Keeper  would  men- 
tion how  that  there  was  something  wrong  with  the  bell  of 
the  turret  stable-clock  up  at  the  Hall,  and  that  if  we 
■ thought  good  of  going  up  to  the  housekeeper  on  the  chance 
of  that  job  too,  why  he  would  take  us.  Then,  should  we 
go,  among  the  branching  oaks  and  the  deep  fern,  by  silent 
ways  of  mystery  known  to  the  Keeper,  seeing  the  herd 
glancing  here  and  there  as  we  Avent  along,  until  we  camie 
to  the  old  Hall,  solemn  and  grand.  'Under  the  Terrace 


108  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

Flower  Garden,  and  round  by  the  stables,  would  the  Keeper 
take  us  in,  and  as  we  passed  we  should  observe  how  spa- 
cious and  stately  the  stables,  and  how  fine  the  painting  of 
the  horses^  names  over  their  stalls,  and  how  solitary  all : 
the  family  being  in  London.  Then,  should  we  find  our- 
selves presented  to  the  housekeeper,  sitting,  in  hushed 
state,  at  needlework,  in  a-^bay- window  looking  out  upon  a 
mighty  grim  red-brick  quadrangle,  guarded  by  stone  lions 
disrespectfully  throwing  somersaults  over  the  escutcheons 
of  the  noble  family.  Then,  our  services  accepted  and  we 
insinuated  with  a candle  into  the  stable-turret,  we  should 
find  it  to  be  a mere  question  of  pendulum,  but  one  that 
would  hold  us  until  dark.  Then,  should  we  fall  to  work, 
with  a general  impression  of  Ghosts  being  about,  and  of 
pictures  indoors  that  of  a certainty  came  out  of  their 
frames  and  walked,’’  if  the  family  would  only  own  it. 
Then,  should  we  work  and  work,  until  the  day  gradually 
turned  to  dusk,  and  even  until  the  dusk  gradually  turned 
to  dark.  Our  task  at  length  accomplished,  we  should  be 
taken  into  an  enormous  servants’  hall,  and  there  regaled 
with  beef  and  bread,  and  powerful  ale.  Then,  paid  freely, 
we  should  be  at  liberty  to  go,  and  should  be  told  by  a point- 
ing helper  to  keep  round  over  yinder  by  the  blasted  ash, 
and  so  straight  through  the  woods,  till  we  should  see  the 
town-lights  right  afore  us.  Then,  feeling  lonesome,  should 
we  desire  upon  the  whole,  that  the  ash  had  not  been 
blasted,  or  that  the  helper  had  had  the  manners  not  to 
mention  it.  However,  we  should  keep  on,  all  right,  till 
suddenly  the  stable  bell  would  strike  ten  in  the  dolefullest 
way,  quite  chilling  our  blood,  though  we  had  so  lately 
taught  him  how  to  acquit  himself.  Then,  as  we  went  on, 
should  we  recall  old  stories,  and  dimly  consider  what  it 
would  be  most  advisable  to  do,  in  the  event  of  a tall  figure, 
all  in  white,  with  saucer  eyes,  coming  up  and  saying,  I 
want  you  to  come  to  a churchyard  and  mend  a church  clock. 
Follow  me!  ” Then,  should  we  make  a burst  to  get  clear 
of  the  trees,  and  should  soon  find  ourselves  in  the  open, 
with  the  town-lights  bright  ahead  of  us.  So  should  we 
lie  that  night  at  the  ancient  sign  of  the  Crispin  and  Cris- 
panus,  and  rise  early  next  morning  to  be  betimes  on  tramp 
again. 

Bricklayers  often  tramp,  in  twos  and  threes,  lying  by 
night  at  their lodges,”  which  are  scattered  all  over  the 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


109 


country.  Bricklaying  is  another  of  the  occupations  that 
can  by  no  means  be  transacted  in  rural  parts,  without  the 
assistance  of  spectators — of  as  many  as  can  be  convened. 
In  thinly-peopled  spots,  I have  known  bricklayers  on 
tramp,  coming  up  with  bricklayers  at  work,  to  be  so  sensi- 
ble of  the  indispensability  of  lookers-on,  that  they  them- 
selves have  set  up  in  that  capacity,  and  have  been  unable 
to  subside  into  the  acceptance  of  a proifered  share  in  the 
job,  for  two  or  three  days  together.  Sometimes,  the 
navvy,’’  on  tramp,  with  an  extra  pair  of  half-boots  over 
his  shoulder,  a bag,  a bottle,  and  a can,  will  take  a similar 
part  in  a job  of  excavation,  and  will  look  at  it  without  en- 
gaging in  it,  until  all  his  money  is  gone.  The  current  of 
my  uncommercial  pursuits  caused  me  only  last  summer  to 
want  a little  body  of  workmen  for  a certain  spell  of  work 
in  a pleasant  part  of  the  country;  and  I was  at  one  time 
honoured  with  the  attendance  of  as  many  as  seven-and- 
twenty,  who  were  looking  at  six. 

Who  can  be  familiar  with  any  rustic  highway  in  sum- 
mer-time, without  storing  up  knowledge  of  the  many  tramps 
who  go  from  one  oasis  of  town  or  village  to  another,  to  sell 
a stock  in  trade,  apparently  not  worth  a shilling  when  sold? 
Shrimps  are  a favourite  commodity  for  this  kind  of  specu- 
lation, and  so  are  cakes  of  a soft  and  spongy  character, 
coupled  with  Spanish  nuts  and  brandy  balls.  The  stock  is 
carried  on  the  head  in  a basket,  and,  between  the  head  and 
the  basket,  are  the  trestles  on  which  the  stock  is  displayed 
at  trading  times.  Fleet  of  foot,  but  a careworn  class  of 
tramp  this,  mostly;  with  a certain  stiffness  of  neck,  occa- 
sioned by  much  anxious  balancing  of  baskets ; and  also  with 
a long  Chinese  sort  of  eye,  which  an  overweighted  forehead 
would  seem  to  have  squeezed  into  that  form. 

On  the  hot  dusty  roads  near  seaport  towns  and  great 
rivers,  behold  the  tramping  Soldier.  And  if  you  should 
happen  never  to  have  asked  yourself  whether  his  uniform 
is  suited  to  his  work,  perhaps  the  poor  fellow’s  appear- 
ance as  he  comes  distressfully  towards  you,  with  his  ab- 
surdly tight  jacket  unbuttoned,  his  neck-gear  in  his  hand, 
and  his  legs  well  chafed  by  his  trousers  of  baize,  may  sug- 
gest the  personal  inquiry,  how  you  think  you  would  like  it. 
Much  better  the  tramping  Sailor,  although  his  cloth  is 
somewhat  too  thick  for  land  service.  But,  why  the  tramp- 
ing merchant-mate  should  put  on  a black  velvet  waist- 


110 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


coat,  for  a chalky  country  in  the  dog-days,  is  one  of  the 
great  secrets  of  nature  that  will  never  be  discovered. 

I have  my  eye  upon  a piece  of  Kentish  road,  bordered 
on  either  side  by  a wood,  and  having  on  one  hand,  be- 
tween the  road-dust  and  the  trees,  a skirting  patch  of 
grass.  Wild  flowers  grow  in  abundance  on  this  spot,  and 
it  lies  high  and  airy,  with  a distant  river  stealing  steadily 
away  to  the  ocean,  like  a man’s  life.  To  gain  the  mile- 
stone here,  which  the  moss,  primroses,  violets,  blue-bells, 
and  wild  roses,  would  soon  render  illegible  but  for  peering 
travellers  pushing  them  aside  with  their  sticks,  you  must 
come  up  a steep  hill,  come  which  way  you  may.  So,  all 
the  tramps  with  carts  or  caravans — the  Gipsy-tramp,  the 
Show-tramp,  the  Cheap  Jack — find  it  impossible  to  resist 
the  temptations  of  the  place,  and  all  turn  the  horse  loose 
when  they  come  to  it,  and  boil  the  pot.  Bless  the  place, 
I love  the  ashes  of  the  vagabond  fires  that  have  scorched 
its  grass ! What  tramp  children  do  I see  here,  attired  in  a 
handful  of  rags,  making  a gymnasium  of  the  shafts  of  the 
cart,  making  a feather-bed  of  the  flints  and  brambles,  mak- 
ing a toy  of  the  hobbled  old  horse  who  is  not  much  more 
like  a horse  than  any  cheap  toy  would  be ! Here,  do  I en- 
counter the  cart  of  mats  and  brooms  and  baskets — with  all 
thoughts  of  business  given  to  the  evening  wind — with  the 
stew  made  and  being  served  out — with  Cheap  Jack  and 
Dear  Jill  striking  soft  music  out  of  the  plates  that  are  rat- 
tled like  warlike  cymbals  when  put  up  for  auction  at  fairs 
and  markets — their  minds  so  influenced  (no  doubt)  by  the 
melody  of  the  nightingales  as  they  begin  to  sing  in  the 
woods  behind  them,  that  if  I were  to  propose  to  deal,  they 
would  sell  me  anything  at  cost  price.  On  this  hallowed 
ground  has  it  been  my  happy  privilege  (let  me  whisper  it), 
to  behold  the  White-haired  Lady  with  the  pink  eyes,  eat- 
ing meat-pie  with  the  Giant : while,  by  the  hedgeside,  on 
the  box  of  blankets  which  I knew  contained  the  snakes, 
were  set  forth  the  cups  and  saucers  and  the  teapot.  It  was 
on  an  evening  in  August,  that  I chanced  upon  this  ravish- 
ing spectacle,  and  I noticed  that,  whereas  the  Giant  re- 
clined half  concealed  beneath  the  overhanging  boughs  and 
seemed  indifferent  to  Nature,  the  white  hair  of  the  gracious 
Lady  streamed  free  in  the  breath  of  evening,  and  her  pink 
eyes  found  pleasure  in  the  landscape.  T heard  only  a sin- 
gle sentence  of  her  uttering,  yet  it  bespoke  a talent  for 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Ill 


modest  repartee.  The  ill-mannered  Giant — accursed  be 
his  evil  race ! — had  interrupted  the  Lady  in  some  remark, 
and,  as  I passed  that  enchanted  corner  of  the  wood,  she 
gently  reproved  him,  with  the  words,  ^^Now,  Cobby;  ’’ — 
Cobby!  so  short  a name!  — ain’t  one  fool  enough  to  talk 
at  a time?  ” 

Within  appropriate  distance  of  this  magic  ground,  though 
not  so  near  it  as  that  the  song  trolled  from  tap  or  bench  at 
door,  can  invade  its  woodland  silence,  is  a little  hostelry 
^ which  no  man  possessed  of  a penny  was  ever  known  to  pass 
'in  warm  weather.  Before  its  entrance,  are  certain  pleasant 
trimmed  limes;  likewise,  a cool  well,  with  so  musical  a 
bucket-handle  that  its  fall  upon  the  bucket  rim  will  make 
a horse  prick  up  his  ears  and  neigh,  upon  the  droughty 
road  half  a mile  off.  This  is  a house  of  great  resort  for 
haymaking  tramps  and  harvest  tramps,  insomuch  that  they 
I sit  within,  drinking  their  mugs  of  beer,  their  relinquished 
scythes  and  reaping-hooks  glare  out  of  the  open  windows, 
.as  if  the  whole  establishment  were  a family  war-coach  of 
1 Ancient  Britons.  Later  in  the  season,  the  whole  country- 
side, for  miles  and  miles.,  will  swarm  with  hopping  tramps. 
They  come  in  families,  men,  women,  and  children,  every 
family  provided  with  a bundle  of  bedding,  an  iron  pot,  a 
number  of  babies,  and  too  often  with  some  poor  sick  creat- 
ure quite  unfit  for  the  rough  life,  for  whom  they  suppose 
the  smell  of  the  fresh  hop  to  be  a sovereign  remedy. 
Many  of  these  hoppers  are  Irish,  but  many  come  from  Lon- 
don. They  crowd  all  the  roads,  and  camp  under  all  the 
hedges  and  on  all  the  scraps  of  common-land,  and  live 
among  and  upon  the  hops  until  they  are  all  picked  and  the 
hop  gardens,  so  beautiful  through  the  summer,  look  as  if 
ithey  had  been  laid  waste  by  an  invading  army.  Then, 
there  is  a vast  exodus  of  tramps  out  of  the  county;  and  if 
70U  ride  or  drive  round  any  turn  of  any  road,  at  more  than 
a foot  pace,  you  will  be  bewildered  to  find  that  you  have 
charged  into  the  bosom  of  fifty  families,  and  that  there  are 
'splashing  up  all  around  you,  in  the  utmost  prodigality  of 
,3onfusion,  bundles  of  bedding,  babies,  iron  pots,  and  a 
good-humoured  multitude  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages,  equally 
iivided  between  perspiration  and  intoxication. 


112 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


XIL 

DULLBOROUGH  TOWN. 

It  lately  happened  that  I found  myself  rambling  about 
the  scenes  among  which  my  earliest  days  were  passed; 
scenes  from  which  I departed  when  I was  a child,  and 
which  I did  not  revisit  until  I was  a man.  This  is  no  un- 
common chance,  but  one  that  befalls  some  of  us  any  day; 
perhaps  it  may  not  be  quite  uninteresting  to  compare  notes 
with  the  reader  respecting  an  experience  so  familiar  and  a 
journey  so  uncommercial. 

I call  my  boyhood’s  home  (and  I feel  like  a Tenor  in  an 
English  Opera  when  I mention  it)  Dullborough.  Most  of 
us  come  from  Dullborough  who  come  from  a country  town. 

As  I left  Dullborough  in  the  days  when  there  were  no 
railroads  in  the  land,  I left  it  in  a stage-coach.  Through 
all  the  years  that  have  since  passed,  have  I ever  lost  the 
smell  of  the  damp  straw  in  which  I was  packed — like  game 
— and  forwarded,  carriage  paid,  to  the  Cross  Keys,  Wood- 
street,  Cheapside,  London?  There  was  no  other  inside 
passenger,  and  I consumed  my  sandwiches  in  solitude  and 
dreariness,  and  it  rained  hard  all  the  way,  and  I thought 
life  sloppier  than  I had  expected  to  find  it. 

With  this  tender  remembrance  upon  me,  I was  cavalierly 
shunted  back  into  Dullborough  the  other  day,  by  train. 
My  ticket  had  been  previously  collected,  like  my  taxes,  and 
my  shining  new  portmanteau  had  had  a great  plaster  stuck 
upon  it,  and  I had  been  defied  by  Act  of  Parliament  to 
offer  an  objection  to  anything  that  was  done  to  it,  or  me, 
under  a penalty  of  not  less  than  forty  shillings  or  more 
than  five  pounds,  compoundable  for  a term  of  imprison- 
ment. When  I had  sent  my  disfigured  property  on  to  the 
hotel,  I began  to  look  about  me;  and  the  first  discovery  I 
made,  was,  that  the  Station  had  swallowed  up  the  playing- 
field. 

It  was  gone.  The  two  beautiful  haw  thorn- trees,  the 
hedge,  the  turf,  and  all  those  buttercups  and  daisies,  had 
given  place  to  the  stoniest  of  jolting  roads : while,  beyond 
the  Station,  an  ugly  dark  monster  of  a tunnel  kept  its  jaws 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


113 


I open,  as  if  it  had  swallowed  them  and  were  ravenous  for 
I more  destruction.  The  coach  that  had  carried  me  away, 
was  melodiously  called  Timpson’s  Blue-Eyed  Maid,  and 
belonged  to  Timpson,  at  the  coach-office  up-street;  the  lo- 
comotive engine  that  had  brought  me  back,  was  called  se- 
verely No.  97,  and  belonged  to  S.E.R.,  and  was  spitting 
ashes  and  hot- water  over  the  blighted  ground. 

When  I had  been  let  out  of  the  platform-door,  like  a pris- 
oner whom  his  turnkey  grudgingly  released,  I looked  in 
again  over  the  low  wall,  at  the  scene  of  departed  glories. 
Here,  in  the  haymaking  time,  had  I been  delivered  from 
the  dungeons  of  Seringapatam,  an  immense  pile  (of  hay- 
cock), by  my  countrymen,  the  victorious  British  (boy  next 
door  and  his  two  cousins),  and  had  been  recognised  with 
ecstasy  by  my  affianced  one  (Miss  Green),  who  had  come 
^all  the  way  from  England  (second  house  in  the  terrace) 
to  ransom  me,  and  marry  me.  Here,  had  I first  heard  in 
confidence,  from  one  whose  father  was  greatly  connected, 
being  under  Government,  of  the  existence  of  a terrible 
‘banditti,  called  ^^The  Radicals, whose  principles  were, 
that  the  Prince  Regent  wore  stays,  and  that  nobody  had  a 
right  to  any  salary,  and  that  the  army  and  navy  ought  to 
be  put  down — horrors  at  which  I trembled  in  my  bed,  after 
supplicating  that  the  Radicals  might  be  speedily  taken  and 
hanged.  Here,  too,  had  we,  the  small  boys  of  Boles’s,  had 
that  cricket  match  against  the  small  boys  of  Coles’s,  when 
Boles  and  Coles  had  actually  met  upon  the  ground,  and 
when,  instead  of  instantly  hitting  out  at  one  another  with 
the  utmost  fury,  as  we  had  all  hoped  and  expected,  those 
sneaks  had  said  respectively,  hope  Mrs.  Boles  is  well,” 
^and  I hope  Mrs.  Coles  and  the  baby  are  doing  charm- 
Ingly.”  Could  it  be  that,  after  all  this,  and  much  more, 
the  Playing-field  was  a Station,  and  No.  97  expectorated 
boiling- water  and  redhot  cinders  on  it,  and  the  whole  be- 
longed by  Act  of  Parliament  to  S.E.R.? 

As  it  could  be,  and  was,  I left  the  place  with  a heavy 
heart  for  a walk  all  over  the  town.  And  first  of  Timpson ’s 
' iip-street.  When  I departed  from  Dullborough  in  the 
strawy  arms  of  Timpson’s  Blue-Eyed  Maid,  Timpson’s  was 
a.  moderate-sized  coach-office  (in  fact,  a little  coach-office), 
with  an  oval  transparency  in  the  window,  which  looked 
, beautiful  by  night,  representing  one  of  Timpson’s  coaches 
in  the  act  of  passing  a milestone  on  the  London  road  with 
8 


114 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


great  velocity,  completely  full  inside  and  out,  and  all  the 
passengers  dressed  in  the  first  style  of  fashion,  and  enjoy- 
ing themselves  tremendously.  I found  no  such  place  as 
Timpson’s  now — no  such  bricks  and  rafters,  not  to  mention 
the  name — no  such  edifice  on  the  teeming  earth.  Pickford 
had  come  and  knocked  Timpson’s  down.  Pickford  had  not| 
only  knocked  Timpson’s  down,  but  had  knocked  two  or 
three  houses  down  on  each  side  of  Timpson’s,  and  then  had 
knocked  the  whole  into  one  great  establishment  with  a pair 
of  big  gates,  in  and  out  of  which,  his  (Pickford’s)  wag- 
gons are,  in  these  days,  always  rattling,  with  their  drivers 
sitting  up  so  high,  that  they  look  in  at  the  second-floor 
windows  of  the  old-fashioned  houses  in  the  High-street  as 
they  shake  the  town.  I have  not  the  honour  of  Pickford’s 
acquaintance,  but  I felt  that  he  had  done  me  an  injury, 
not  to  say  committed  an  act  of  boyslaughter,  in  running 
over  my  childhood  in  this  rough  manner;  and  if  ever  I 
meet  Pickford  driving  one  of  his  own  monsters,  and  smok- 
ing a pipe  the  while  (which  is  the  custom  of  his  men),  he 
shall  know  by  the  expression  of  my  eye,  if  it  catches  his, 
that  there  is  something  wrong  between  us. 

Moreover,  I felt  that  Pickford  had  no  right  to  come  rush- 
ing into  Dullborough  and  deprive  the  town  of  a public  pic- 
ture. He  is  not  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  When  he  took  down! 
the  transparent  stage-coach,  he  ought  to  have  given  the 
town  a transparent  van.  With  a gloomy  conviction  that 
Pickford  is  wholly  utilitarian  and  unimaginative,  I pro- 
ceeded on  my  way. 

It  is  a mercy  I have  not  a red  and  green  lamp  and  a 
night-bell  at  my  door,  for  in  my  very  young  days  I was 
taken  to  so  many  lyings-in  that  I wonder  I escaped  becom- 
ing a professional  martyr  to  them  in  after-life.  I suppose 
I had  a very  sympathetic  nurse,  with  a large  circle  of  mar- 
ried acquaintance.  However  that  was,  as  I continued  my 
walk  through  Dullborough,  I found  many  houses  to  be 
solely  associated  in  my  mind  with  this  particular  interest. 
At  one  little  greengrocer^s  shop,  down  certain  steps  from 
the  street,  I remember  to  have  waited  on  a lady  who  had 
had  four  children  (I  am  afraid  to  write  five,  though  1 
fully  believe  it  was  five)  at  a birth.  Tins  meritorious! 
woman  held  quite  a reception  in  her  room  on  the  morning 
when  I was  introduced  there,  and  the  sight  of  the  house 
brought  vividly  to  my  mind  how  the  four  (five)  deceased 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


115 


young  people  lay,  side  by  side,  on  a clean  cloth  on  a chest 
of  drawers;  reminding  me  by  a homely  association,  which 
I suspect  their  complexion  to  have  assisted,  of  pigs’  feet 
as  they  are  usually  displayed  at  a neat  tripe-shop.  Hot 
caudle  was  handed  round  on  the  occasion,  and  I further  re- 
membered as  I stood  contemplating  the  greengrocer’s,  that 
a subscription  was  entered  into  among  the  company,  which 
became  extremely  alarming  to  my  consciousness  of  having 
pocket-money  on  my  person.  This  fact  being  known  to  my 
conductress,  whoever  she  was,  I was  earnestly  exhorted  to 
contribute,  but  resolutely  declined : therein  disgusting  the 
company,-  who  gave  me  to  understand  that  I must  dismiss 
all  expectations  of  going  to  Heaven. 

How  does  it  happen  that  when  all  else  is  change  wherever 
one  goes,  there  yet  seem,  in  every  place,  to  be  some  few 
people  who  never  alter?  As  the  sight  of  the  greengrocer’s 
house  recalled  these  trivial  incidents  of  long  ago,  the  iden- 
tical greengrocer  appeared  on  the  steps,  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  leaning  his  shoulder  against  the  door-post, 
as  my  childish  eyes  had  seen  him  many  a time;  indeed, 
there  was  his  old  mark  on  the  door-post  yet,  as  if  his 
shadow  had  become  a fixture  there.  It  was  he  himself;  he 
might  formerly  have  been  an  old-looking  young  man,  or  he 
might  now  be  a young-looking  old  man,  but  there  he  was. 
In  walking  along  the  street,  I had  as  yet  looked  in  vain  for 
a familiar  face,  or  even  a transmitted  face;  here  was  the 
very  greengrocer  who  had  been  weighing  and  handling 
baskets  on  the  morning  of  the  reception.  As  he  brought 
with  him  a dawning  remembrance  that  he  had  had  no  pro- 
prietary interest  in  those  babies,  I crossed  the  road,  and 
accosted  him  on  the  subject.  He  was  not  in  the  least  ex- 
cited or  gratified,  or  in  any  way  roused,  by  the  accuracy  of 
my  recollections,  but  said.  Yes,  summut  out  of  the  common 
— lie  didn’t  remember  how  many  it  was  (as  if  half-a-dozen 
babes  either  way  made  no  difference) — had  happened  to  a 
Mrs.  What’s-her-name,  as  once  lodged  there — but  he  didn’t 
call  it  to  mind,  particular.  Nettled  by  this  phlegmatic 
conduct,  I informed  him  that  I had  left  the  town  when  I 
was  a child.  He  slowly  returned,  quite  unsoftened,  and 
not  without  a sarcastic  kind  of  complacency.  Had  I?  Ah! 
And  did  I find  it  had  got  on  tolerably  well  without  me? 
Such  is  the  difference  (I  thought,  when  I had  left  him  a 
few  hundred  yards  behind,  and  was  by  so  much  in  a better 


116 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


temper)  between  going  away  from  a place  and  remaining  in 
it.  I had  no  right,  I reflected,  to  be  angry  with  the  green- 
grocer for  his  want  of  interest,  I was  nothing  to  him: 
whereas  he  was  the  town,  the  cathedral,  the  bridge,  the 
river,  my  childhood,  and  a large  slice  of  my  life,  to  me. 

Of  course  the  town  had  shrunk  fearfully,  since  I was  a 
child  there.  I had  entertained  the  impression  that  the 
High-street  was  at  least  as  wide  as  Eegent-street,  London, 
or  the  Italian  Boulevard  at  Paris.  I found  it  little  better 
than  a lane.  There  was  a public  clock  in  it,  which  I had 
supposed  to  be  the  finest  clock  in  the  world : whereas  it 
now  turned  out  to  be  as  inexpressive,  moon-faced,  and 
weak  a clock  as  ever  I saw.  It  belonged  to  a Town  Hall, 
where  I had  seen  an  Indian  (who  I now  suppose  wasn^t  an 
Indian)  swallow  a sword  (which  I now  suppose  he  didn’t). 
The  edifice  had  appeared  to  me  in  those  days  so  glorious  a 
structure,  that  I had  set  it  up  in  my  mind  as  the  model  on 
which  the  Genie  of  the  Lamp  built  the  palace  for  Aladdin. 
A mean  little  brick  heap,  like  a demented  chapel,  with  a 
few  yawning  persons  in  leather  gaiters,  and  in  the  last  ex- 
tremity for  something  to  do,  lounging  at  the  door  with 
their  hands  in  their  pockets,  and  calling  themselves  a Corn 
Exchange ! 

The  Theatre  was  in  existence,  I found,  on  asking  the 
fishmonger,  who  had  a compact  show  of  stock  in  his  win- 
dow, consisting  of  a sole  and  a quart  of  shrimps — and  I re- 
solved to  comfort  my  mind  by  going  to  look  at  it.  Richard 
the  Third,  in  a very  uncomfortable  cloak,  had  first  appeared 
to  me  there,  and  had  made  my  heart  leap  with  terror  by 
backing  up  against  the  stage-box  in  which  I was  posted, 
while  struggling  for  life  against  the  virtuous  Richmond.  It 
was  within  those  walls  that  I had  learnt  as  from  a page  of 
English  history,  how  that  wicked  King  slept  in  w^ar-time 
on  a sofa  much  too  short  for  him,  and  how  fearfully  his 
conscience  troubled  his  boots.  There,  too,  had  I first  seen 
the  funny  countryman,  but  countryman  of  noble  principles, 
in  a flowered  waistcoat,  crunch  up  his  little  hat  and  throw 
it  on  the  ground,  and  pull  off  his  coat,  saying,  Dom  thee, 
squire,  cooni  on  with  thy  fistes  then  ! ” At  which  the  lovely 
young  woman  who  kept  company  with  him  (and  who  went 
out  gleaning,  in  a narrow  white  muslin  apron  with  five 
beautiful  bars  of  five  different  coloured  ribbons  across  it) 
was  so  frightened  for  his  sake,  that  she  fainted  away. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


117 


Many  wondrous  secrets  of  Nature  had  I come  to  the  knowl- 
edge of  in  that  sanctuary : of  which  not  the  least  terrific 
were,  that  the  witches  in  Macbeth  bore  an  awful  resem- 
blance to  the  Thanes  and  other  proper  inhabitants  of  Scot- 
land; and  that  the  good  King  Duncan  couldn’t  rest  in  his 
grave,  but  was  constantly  coming  out  of  it  and  calling  him- 
self somebody  else.  To  the  Theatre,  therefore,  I repaired 
for  consolation.  But  I found  very  little,  for  it  was  in  a 
bad  and  declining  way.  A dealer  in  wine  and  bottled  beer 
had  already  squeezed  his  trade  into  the  box-office,  and  the 
theatrical  money  was  taken — when  it  came — in  a kind  of 
meat-safe  in  the  passage.  The  dealer  in  wine  and  bottled 
beer  must  have  insinuated  himself  under  the  stage  too;  for 
he  announced  that  he  had  various  descriptions  of  alcoholic 
drinks  ^^in  the  wood,”  and  there  was  no  possible  stowage 
for  the  wood  anywhere  else.  Evidently,  he  was  by  degrees 
eating  the  establishment  away  to  the  core,  and  would  soon 
have  sole  possession  of  it.  It  was  To  Let,  and  hopelessly 
so,  for  its  old  purposes;  and  there  had  been  no  entertain- 
ment within  its  walls  for  a long  time  except  a Panorama; 
and  even  that  had  been  announced  as  pleasingly  instruc- 
tive,” and  I know  too  well  the  fatal  meaning  and  the  leaden 
import  of  those  terrible  expressions.  No,  there  was  no 
comfort  in  the  Theatre.  It  was  mysteriously  gone,  like 
my  own  youth.  Unlike  my  own  youth,  it  might  be  coming 
back  some  day;  but  there  was  little  promise  of  it. 

As  the  town  was  placarded  with  references  to  the  Dull- 
borough  Mechanics’  Institution,  I thought  I would  go  and 
look  at  that  establishment  next.  There  had  been  no  such 
thing  in  the  town,  in  my  young  day,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
that  its  extreme  prosperity  might  have  brought  adversity 
upon  the  Drama.  I found  the  Institution  with  some  diffi- 
culty,  and  should  scarcely  have  known  that  I had  found  it 
if  I had  judged  from  its  external  appearance  only;  but  this 
was  attributable  to  its  never  having  been  finished,  and  hav- 
ing no  front ; consequently,  it  led  a modest  and  retired  ex- 
istence up  a stable-yard.  It  was  (as  I learnt,  on  inquiry) 
a most  flourishing  Institution,  and  of  the  highest  benefit  to 
the  town : two  triumphs  which  I was  glad  to  understand 
were  not  at  all  impaired  by  the  seeming  drawbacks  thatmo 
mechanics  belonged  to  it,  and  that  it  was  steeped  in  debt 
to  the  chimney-pots.  It  had  a large  room,  which  was 
approached  by  an  infirm  step-ladder:  the  builder  having 


118 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


declined  to  construct  the  intended  staircase,  without  a 
present  payment  in  cash,  which  Dullborough  (though  pro- 
foundly appreciative  of  the  Institution)  seemed  unaccount- 
ably bashful  about  subscribing.  The  large  room  had  cost 
— or  would,  when  paid  for — five  hundred  pounds;  and  it 
had  more  mortar  in  it  and  more  echoes,  than  one  might 
have  expected  to  get  for  the  money.  It  was  fitted  up  with 
a platform,  and  the  usual  lecturing  tools,  including  a large 
black  board  of  a menacing  appearance.  On  referring  to 
lists  of  the  courses  of  lectures  that  had  been  given  in  this 
thriving  Hall,  I fancied  I detected  a shyness  in  admitting 
that  human  nature  when  at  leisure  has  any  desire  whatever 
to  be  relieved  and  diverted;  and  a furtive  sliding  in  of  any 
poor  make- weight  piece  of  amusement,  shamefacedly  and 
edgewise.  Thus,  I observed  that  it  was  necessary  for  the 
members  to  be  knocked  on  the  head  with  Gas,  Air,  Water, 
Food,  the  Solar  System,  the  Geological  periods,  Criticism 
on  Milton,  the  Steam-engine,  John  Bunyan,  and  Arrow- 
Headed  Inscriptions,  before  they  might  be  tickled  by  those 
unaccountable  choristers,  the  negro  singers  in  the  court  cos- 
tume of  the  reign  of  George  the  Second.  Likewise,  that 
they  must  be  stunned  by  a weighty  inquiry  whether  there 
was  internal  evidence  in  Shakespeare’s  works,  to  prove 
that  his  uncle  by  the  mother’s  side  lived  for  some  years  at 
Stoke  Newington,  before  they  were  brought- to  by  a Mis- 
cellaneous Concert.  But,  indeed  the  masking  of  entertain- 
ment, and  pretending  it  was  something  else — as  people 
mask  bedsteads  when  they  are  obliged  to  have  them  in 
sitting-rooms,  and  make  believe  that  they  are  book-cases, 
sofas,  chests  of  drawers,  anything  rather  than  bedsteads — 
was  manifest  even  in  the  pretence  of  dreariness  that  the 
unfortunate  entertainers  themselves  felt  obliged  in  decency 
to  put  forth  when  they  came  here.  One  very  agreeable  pro- 
fessional singer  who  travelled  with  two  professional  ladies, 
knew  better  than  to  introduce  either  of  those  ladies  to  sing 
the  ballad  Cornin’  through  the  Rye  ” without  prefacing  it 
himself,  with  some  general  remarks  on  wheat  and  clover; 
and  even  then,  he  dared  not  for  his  life  call  the  song  a song, 
but  disguised  it  in  the  bill  as  an  ^illustration.”  In  the 
library,  also— fitted  with  shelves  for  three  thousand  books, 
and  containing  upwards  of  one  hundred  and  seventy  (pre- 
sented copies  mostly),  seething  their  edges  in  damp  plaster 
—there  was  such  a painfully  apologetic  return  of  62  offen- 


THE  UNCOMMEnCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


119 


ders  who  had  read  Travels,  Popular  Biography,  and  mere 
Fiction  descriptive  of  the  aspirations  of  the  hearts  and  souls 
of  mere  human  creatures  like  themselves;  and  such  an 
elaborate  parade  of  2 bright  examples  who  had  had  down 
Euclid  after  the  day^s  occupation  and  confinement;  and  3 
who  had  had  down  Metaphysics  after  ditto;  and  1 who  had 
had  down  Theology  after  ditto;  and  4 who  had  worried 
Grammar,  Political  Economy,  Botany,  and  Logarithms  all 
at  once  after  ditto;  that  I suspected  the  boasted  class  to  be 
one  man,  who  had  been  hired  to  do  it. 

Emerging  from  the  Mechanics^  Institution  and  continuing 
my  walk  about  the  town,  I still  noticed  everywhere  the 
prevalence,  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  of  this  custom  of 
putting  the  natural  demand  for  amusement  out  of  sight,  as 
some  untidy  housekeepers  put  dust,  and  pretending  that  it 
was  swept  away.  And  yet  it  was  ministered  to,  in  a dull 
and  abortive  manner,  by  all  who  made  this  feint.  Look- 
ing in  at  what  is  called  in  Dullborough  the  serious  book- 
seller’s,” where,  in  my  childhood,  I had  studied  the  faces 
of  numbers  of  gentlemen  depicted  in  rostrums  with  a gas- 
light on  each  side  of  them,  and  casting  my  eyes  over  the 
open  pages  of  certain  printed  discourses  there,  I found  a 
vast  deal  of  aiming  at  jocosity  and  dramatic  effect,  even  in 
them — yes,  verily,  even  on  the  parl^  of  one  very  wrathful 
expounder  who  bitterly  anathematised  a poor  little  Circus. 
Similarly,  in  the  reading  provided  for  the  young  people  en- 
rolled in  the  Lasso  of  Love,  and  other  excellent  unions,  I 
found  the  writers  generally  under  a distressing  sense  that 
they  must  start  (at  all  events)  like  story-tellers,  and  de- 
lude the  young  persons  into  the  belief  that  they  were  going 
to  be  interesting.  As  I looked  in  at  this  window  for  twenty 
minutes  by  the  clock,  I am  in  a position  to  offer  a friendly 
remonstrance — not  bearing  on  this  particular  point — to  the 
designers  and  engravers  of  the  pictures  in  those  publica- 
tions. Have  they  considered  the  awful  consequence  likely 
to  flow  from  their  representations  of  Virtue?  Have  they 
asked  themselves  the  question,  whether  the  terrific  pros- 
pect of  acquiring  that  fearful  chubbiness  of  head,  unwieldi- 
ness of  arm,  feeble  dislocation  of  leg,  crispiness  of  hair, 
and  enormity  of  shirt-collar,  which  they  represent  as'  in- 
separable from  Goodness,  may  not  tend  to  confirm  sensitive 
waverers,  in  Evil?  . A most  impressive  example  (if  I had 
believed  it)  of  what  a Dustman  and  a Sailor  may  come  to, 


120  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

when  they  mend  their  ways,  was  presented  to  me  in  this 
same  shop-window.  Wlien  they  were  leaning  (they  were 
intimate  friends)  against  a post,  drunk  and  reckless,  with 
surpassingly  bad  hats  on,  and  their  hair  over  their  fore- 
heads, they  were  rather  picturesque,  and  looked  as  if  they 
might  be  agreeable  men,  if  they  would  not  be  beasts.  But, 
when  they  had  got  over  their  bad  propensities,  and  when, 
as  a consequence,  their  heads  had  swelled  alarmingly,  their 
liair  had  got  so  curly  that  it  lifted  their  blown-out  cheeks 
up,  their  coat-cuffs  were  so  long  that  they  never  could  do 
any  work,  and  their  eyes  were  so  wide  open  that  they  never 
could  do  any  sleep,  they  presented  a spectacle  calculated  to 
plunge  a timid  nature  into  the  depths  of  Infamy. 

But,  the  clock  that  had  so  degenerated  since  I saw  it 
last,  admonished  me  that  I had  stayed  here  long  enough; 
and  I resumed  my  walk. 

I had  not  gone  fifty  paces  along  the  street  when  I w^as 
suddenly  brought  up  by  the  sight  of  a man  who  got  out  of 
a little  phaeton  at  the  doctor^  s door,  and  went  into  the  doc- 
tor's house.  Immediately,  the  air  was  filled  with  the  scent 
of  trodden  grass,  and  the  perspective  of  years  opened,  and 
at  the  end  of  it  was  a little  likeness  of  this  man  keeping  a 
wicket,  and  I said,  ^^God  bless  my  soul!  Joe  Specks!” 

Through  many  cha^iges  and  much  work,  I had  preserved 
a tenderness  for  the  memory  of  Joe,  forasmuch  as  we  had 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Roderick  Random  together,  and 
had  believed  him  to  be  no  ruffian,  but  an  ingenuous  and 
engaging  hero.  Scorning  to  ask  the  boy  left  in  the  phae- 
ton whether  it  was  really  Joe,  and  scorning  even  to  read 
the  brass  plate  on  the  door — so  sure  was  I — I rang  the  bell 
and  informed  the  servant  maid  that  a stranger  sought  audi- 
ence of  Mr.  Specks.  Into  a room,  half  surgery,  half  study, 
I was  shown  to  await  his  coming,  and  I found  it,  by  a 
series  of  elaborate  accidents,  bestrewn  with  testimonies  to 
Joe.  Portrait  of  Mr.  Specks,  bust  of  Mr.  Specks,  silver 
cup  from  grateful  patient  to  Mr.  Specks,  presentation  ser- 
mon from  local  clergyman,  dedication  poem  from  local 
poet,  dinner-card  from  local  nobleman,  tract  on  balance  of 
power  from  local  refugee,  inscribed  Hommage  de  V auteur  a 
Specks. 

When  my  old  schoolfellow  came  in,  and  I informed  him 
with  a smile  that  I was  not  a patient,  he  seemed  rather  at 
a loss  to  perceive  any  reason  for  smiling  in  connection  with 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


121 


that  fact,  and  inquired  to  what  was  he  to  attribute  the 
honour?  I asked  him,  with  another  smile,  could  he  re- 
member me  at  all?  He  had  not  (he  said)  that  pleasure. 
I was  beginning  to  have  but  a poor  opinion  of  Mr.  Specks, 
when  he  said  reflectively,  And  yet  there’s  a something 
too.”  Upon  that,  I saw  a boyish  light  in  his  eyes  that 
looked  well,  and  I asked  him  if  he  could  inform  me,  as  a 
stranger  who  desired  to  know  and  had  not  the  means  of 
reference  at  hand,  what  the  name  of  the  young  lady  was, 
who  married  Mr.  Eandom?  Upon  that,  he  said  ‘^Nar- 
cissa,”  and,  after  staring  for  a moment,  called  me  by  my 
name,  shook  me  by  the  hand,  and  melted  into  a roar  of 
laughter.  Why,  of  course,  you’ll  remember  Lucy  Green,” 
he  said,  after  we  had  talked  a little.  ‘^Of  course,”  said  I. 

Whom  do  you  think  she  married?  ” said  he.  You?  ” I 
hazarded.  Me,”  said  Specks,  ‘^and  you  shall  see  her.” 
So  I saw  her,  and  she  was  fat,  and  if  all  the  hay  in  the 
world  had  been  heaped  upon  her,  it  could  scarcely  have  al- 
tered her  face  more  than  Time  had  altered  it  from  my  re- 
membrance of  the  face  that  had  once  looked  down  upon  me 
into  the  fragrant  dungeons  of  Seringapatam.  But  when 
her  youngest  child  came  in  after  dinner  (for  I dined  with 
them,  and  we  had  no  other  company  than  Specks,  Junior, 
Barrister- at-law,  who  went  away  as  soon  as  the  cloth  was 
removed,  to  look  after  the  young  lady  to  whom  he  was  go- 
ing to  be  married  next  week),  I saw  again,  in  that  little 
daughter,  the  little  face  of  the  hayfield,  unchanged,  and  it 
quite  touched  my  foolish  heart.  We  talked  immensely. 
Specks  and  Mrs.  Specks,  and  I,  and  we  spoke  of  our  old 
selves  as  though  our  old  selves  were  dead  and  gone,  and 
indeed  indeed  they  were — dead  and  gone  as  the  playing- 
field  that  had  become  a wilderness  of  rusty  iron,  and  the 
property  of  S.E.E. 

Specks,  however,  illuminated  Dullborough  with  the  rays 
of  interest  that  I wanted  and  should  otherwise  have  missed 
in  it,  and  linked  its  present  to  its  past,  with  a highly 
agreeable  chain.  And  in  Speck’s  society  I had  new  occa- 
sion to  observe  what  I had  before  noticed  in  similar  com- 
munications among  other  men.  All  the  schoolfellows  and 
others  of  old,  whom  I inquired  about,  had  either  done  su- 
perlatively well  or  superlatively  ill — had  either  become  un- 
certificated bankrupts,  or  been  felonious  and  got  themselves 
transported;  or  had  made  great  hits  in  life,  and  done  won- 


122 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


ders  And  this  is  so  commonly  the  case,  that  I never  can 
imagine  what  becomes  of  all  the  mediocre  people  of  peo- 
ple’s youth — especially  considering  that  we  find  no  lack  of 
the  species  in  our  maturity.  But,  I did  not  propound  this 
difficulty  to  Specks,  for  no  pause  in  the  conversation  gave 
me  an  occasion.  Nor,  could  I discover  one  single  flaw  in 
the  good  doctor — when  he  reads  this,  he  will  receive  in  a 
friendly  spirit  the  pleasantly  meant  record — except  that  he 
had  forgotten  his  Eoderick  Eandom,  and  that  he  con- 
founded Strap  with  Lieutenant  Hatchway;  who  never  knew 
Eandom,  howsoever  intimate  with  Pickle. 

When  I went  alone  to  the  Eailway  to  catch  my  train  at 
night  (Specks  had  meant  to  go  with  me,  but  was  inoppor- 
tunely called  out),  I was  in  a more  charitable  mood  with 
Dullborough  than  I had  been  all  day;  and  yet  in  my  heart 
I had  loved  it  all  day  too.  Ah ! who  was  I that  I should 
quarrel  with  the  town  for  being  changed  to  me,  when  I 
myself  had  come  back,  so  changed,  to  it ! All  my  early 
readings  and  early  imaginations  dated  from  this  place,  and 
I took  them  away  so  full  of  innocent  construction  and  guile- 
less belief,  and  I brought  them  back  so  worn  and  torn,  so 
much  the  wiser  and  so  much  the  worse ! 


XIII. 

NIGHT  WALKS. 

Some  years  ago,  a temporary  inability  to  sleep,  refer- 
able to  a distressing  impression,  caused  me  to  walk  about 
the  streets  all  night,  for  a series  of  several  nights.  The 
disorder  might  have  taken  a long  time  to  conquer,  if  it  had 
been  faintly  experimented  on  in  bed;  but,  it  was  soon  de- 
feated by  the  brisk  treatment  of  getting  up  directly  after 
lying  down,  and  going  out,  and  coming  home  tired  at  sun- 
rise. 

In  the  course  of  those  nights,  I finished  my  education  in 
a fair  amateur  experience  of  houselessness.  My  principal 
object  being  to  get  through  the  night,  the  pursuit  of  it 
brought  me  into  sympathetic  relations  with  people  who 
have  no  other  object  every  night  in  the  year. 

The  month  was  March,  and  the  weather  damp,  cloudy. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


123 


and  cold.  The  sun  not  rising  before  half-past  five,  the 
night  perspective  looked  sufficiently  long  at  half-past 
twelve : which  was  alDOut  my  time  for  confronting  it. 

The  restlessness  of  a great  city,  and  the  way  in  which 
it  tumbles  and  tosses  before  it  can  get  to  sleep,  formed  one 
of  the  first  entertainments  offered  to  the  contemplation  of 
us  houseless  people.  It  lasted  about  two  hours.  We  lost 
a great  deal  of  companionship  when  the  late  public-houses 
turned  their  lamps  out,  and  when  the  potman  thrust  the 
last  brawling  drunkards  into  the  street;  but  stray  vehicles 
and  stray  people  were  left  us,  after  that.  If  we  were  very 
lucky,  a policeman’s  rattle  sprang  and  a fray  turned  up; 
but,  in  general,  surprisingly  little  of  this  diversion  was 
provided.  Except  in  the  Hay  market,  which  is  the  worst 
kept  part  of  London,  and  about  Kent-street  in  the  Borough, 
and  along  a portion  of  the  line  of  the  Old  Kent-road,  the 
peace  was  seldom  violently  broken.  But,  it  was  always  the 
case  that  London,  as  if  in  imitation  of  individual  citizens 
belonging  to  it,  had  expiring  fits  and  starts  of  restlessness. 
After  all  seemed  quiet,  if  one  cab  rattled  by,  half-a-dozen 
would  surely  follow;  and  Houselessness  even  observed  that 
intoxicated  people  appeared  to  be  magnetically  attracted 
towards  each  other;  so  that  we  knew  when  we  saw  one 
drunken  object  staggering  against  the  shutters  of  a shop, 
that  another  drunken  object  would  stagger  up  before  five 
minutes  were  out,  to  fraternise  or  fight  with  it.  When  we 
made  a divergence  from  the  regular  species  of  drunkard, 
the  thin-armed,  puff-faced,  leaden-lipped  gin-drinker,  and 
encountered  a rarer  specimen  of  a more  decent  appearance, 
fifty  to  one  but  that  specimen  was  dressed  in  soiled  mourning. 
As  the  street  experience  in  the  night,  so  the  street  experience 
in  the  day;  the  common  folk  who  come  unexpectedly  into 
a little  property,  come  unexpectedly  into  a deal  of  liquor. 

At  length  these  flickering  sparks  would  die  away,  worn 
out — the  last  veritable  sparks  of  waking  life  trailed  from 
some  late  pieman  or  hot-potato  man — and  London  would 
sink  to  rest.  And  then  the  yearning  of  the  houseless  mind 
would  be  for  any  sign  of  company,  any  lighted  place,  any 
movement,  anything  suggestive  of  any  one  being  up — nay, 
even  so  much  as  awake,  for  the  houseless  eye  looked  op.t 
for  lights  in  windows. 

Walking  the  streets  under  the  pattering  rain.  Houseless- 
ness would  walk  and  walk  and  walk,  seeing  nothing  but 


124 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


the  interminable . tangle  of  streets,  save  at  a corner,  here 
and  there,  two  policemen  in  conversation,  or  the  sergeant 
or  inspector  looking  after  his  men.  Now  and  then  in  the 
night — but  rarely — Houselessness  would  become  aware  of 
a furtive  head  peering  out  of  a doorway  a few  yards  before 
him,  and,  coming  up  with  the  head,  would  find  a man 
standing  bolt  upright  to  keep  within  the  doorway’s  shadow, 
and  evidently  intent  upon  no  particular  service  to  society. 
Under  a kind  of  fascination,  and  in  a ghostly  silence  suit- 
able to  the  time.  Houselessness  and  this  gentleman  would 
eye  one  another  from  head  to  foot,  and  so,  without  ex- 
change of  speech,  part,  mutually  suspicious.  Drip,  drip, 
drip,  from  ledge  and  coping,  splash  from  pipes  and  water- 
spouts, and  by-and-bye  the  houseless  shadow  would  fall 
upon  the  stones  that  pave  the  way  to  Waterloo-bridge;  it 
being  in  the  houseless  mind  to  have  a halfpenny  worth  of 
excuse  for  saying  Good-night  ” to  the  toll-keeper,  and 
catching  a glimpse  of  his  fire.  A good  fire  and  a good 
great-coat  and  a good  woollen  neck-shawl,  were  comfort- 
able things  to  see  in  conjunction  with  the  toll-keeper;  also 
his  brisk  wakefulness  was  excellent  company  when  he  rat- 
tled the  change  of  halfpence  down  upon  that  metal  table 
of  his,  like  a man  who  defied  the  night,  with  all  its  sor- 
rowful thoughts,  and  didn’t  care  for  the  coming  of  dawn. 
There  was  need  of  encouragement  on  the  threshold  of  the 
bridge,  for  the  bridge  was  dreary.  The  chopped-up  mur- 
dered man,  had  not  been  lowered  with  a rope  over  the  par- 
apet when  those  nights  were;  he  was  alive,  and  slept  then 
quietly  enough  most  likely,  and  undisturbed  by  any  dream 
of  where  he  was  to  come.  But  the  river  had  an  awful  look, 
the  buildings  on  the  banks  were  muffled  in  black  shrouds, 
and  the  reflected  lights  seemed  to  originate  deep  in  the 
water,  as  if  the  spectres  of  suicides  were  holding  them  to 
show  where  they  went  down.  The  wild  moon  and  clouds 
were  as  restless  as  an  evil  conscience  in  a tumbled  bed,  and 
the  very  shadow  of  the  immensity  of  London  seemed  to  lie 
oppressively  upon  the  river. 

Between  the'*  bridge  and  the  two  great  theatres,  there 
was  but  the  distance  of  a few  hundred  paces,  so  the  thea- 
tres came  next.  Grim  and  black  within,  at  night,  those 
great  dry  Wells,  and  lonesome  to  imagine,  with  the  rows 
of  faces  faded  out,  the  lights  extinguished,  and  the  seats 
all  empty.  One  would  think  that  nothing  in  them  knew 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  125 

itself  at  such  a time  but  Yorick’s  skull.  In  one  of  my  night 
walks,  as  the  church  steeples  were  shaking  the  March  winds 
and  rain  with  the  strokes  of  Four,  I passed  the  outer 
boundary  of  one  of  these  great  deserts,  and  entered  it. 
With  a dim  lantern  in  my  hand,  I groped  my  well-known 
way  to  the  stage  and  looked  over  the  orchestra — which  was 
like  a great  grave  dug  for  a time  of  pestilence— into  the 
void  beyond.  A dismal  cavern  of  an  immense  aspect,  with 
the  chandelier  gone  dead  like  everything  else,  and  nothing 
visible  through  mist  and  fog  and  space,  but  tiers  of  wind- 
ing-sheets. The  ground  at  my  feet  where,  when  last 
there,  I had  seen  the  peasantry  of  Naples  dancing  among 
the  vines,  reckless  of  the  burning  mountain  which  threat- 
ened to  overwhelm  them,  was  now  in  possession  of  a strong 
serpent  of  engine-hose,  watchfully  lying  in  wait  for  the 
serpent  Fire,  and  ready  to  fly  at  it  if  it  showed  its  forked 
tongue.  A ghost  of  a watchman,  carrying  a faint  corpse 
candle,  haunted  the  distant  upper  gallery  and  flitted  away, 
j Retiring  within  the  proscenium,  and  holding  my  light  above 
my  head  towards  the  rolled-up  curtain — green  no  more,  but 
black  as  ebony — my  sight  lost  itself  in  a gloomy  vault, 
showing  faint  indications  in  it  of  a shipwreck  of  canvas  and 
cordage.  Methought  I felt  much  as  a diver  might,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea. 

In  those  small  hours  when  there  was  no  movement  in  the 
streets,  it  afforded,  matter  for  reflection  to  take  Newgate  in 
the  way,  and,  touching  its  rough  stone,  to  think  of  the 
prisoners  in  their  sleep,  and  then  to  glance  in  at  the  lodge 
over  the  spiked  wicket,  and  see  the  fire  and  light  of  the 
watching  turnkeys,  on  the  white  wall.  Not  an  inappropri- 
ate time  either,  to  linger  by  that  wicked  little  Debtors’ 

Door  shutting  tighter  than  any  other  door  one  ever  saw 

which  has  been  Death’s  Door  to  so  many.  In  the  days  of 
the  uttering  of  forged  one-pound  notes  by  people  tempted 
ap  from  the  country,  how  many  hundreds  of  wretched 
'3reatures  of  both  sexes — many  quite  innocent — swung  out 
ff  a pitiless  and  inconsistent  world,  with  the  tower  of  yon- 
ier  Christian  church  of  Saint  Sepulchre  monstrously  before 
:heireyes!  Is  there  any  haunting  of  the  Bank  Parlour, 

3y  the  remorseful  souls  of  old  directors,  in  the  nights  of 
mese  later  days,  I wonder,  or  is  it  as  quiet  as  this  degem 
•5rate  Aceldama  of  an  Old  Bailey? 

To  walk  on  to  the  Bank,  lamenting  the  good  old  times 


126 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


and  bemoaning  the  present  evil  period,  would  be  an  easy 
next  step,  so  I would  take  it,  and  would  make  my  house- 
less circuit  of  the  Bank,  and  give  a thought  to  the  treasure 
within;  likewise  to  the  guard  of  soldiers  passing  the  night 
there,  and  nodding  over  the  fire.  Next,  I went  to  Billings- 
gate, in  some  hope  of  market-people,  but  it  proving  as  yet 
too  early,  crossed  London-bridge  and  got  down  by  the 
water-side  on  the  Surrey  shore  among  the  buildings  of  the 
great  brewery.  There  was  plenty  going  on  at  the  brewery; 
and  the  reek,  and  the  smell  of  grains,  and  the  rattling  of 
the  plump  dray  horses  at  their  mangers,  were  capital  com- 
pany. Quite  refreshed  by  having  mingled  with  this  good 
society,  I made  a new  start  with  a new  heart,  setting  the 
old  King’s  Bench  prison  before  me  for  my  next  object,  and 
resolving,  when  I should  come  to  the  wall,  to  think  of  poor 
Horace  Kinch,  and  the  Dry  Bot  in  men. 

A very  curious  disease  the  Dry  Bot  in  men,  and  difficult 
to  detect  the  beginning  of.  It  had  carried  Horace  Kinch 
inside  the  wall  of  the  old  King’s  Bench  prison,  and  it  had 
carried  him  out  with  his  feet  foremost.  He  was  a likely 
man  to  look  at,  in  the  prime  of  life,  well  to  do,  as  clever 
as  he  needed  to  be,  and  popular  among  many  friends. 
He  was  suitably  married,  and  had  healthy  and  pretty  chil- 
dren. But,  like  some  fair-looking  houses  or  fair-looking 
ships,  he  took  the  Dry  Bot.  The  first  strong  external  rev- 
elation of  the  Dry  Bot  in  men,  is  a tendency  to  lurk  and 
lounge;  to  be  at  street-corners  without  intelligible  reason; 
to  be  going  anywhere  when  met;  to  be  about  many  places 
rather  than  at  any;  to  do  nothing  tangible,  but  to  have  an 
intention  of  performing  a variety  of  intangible  duties  to- 
morrow or  the  day  after.  When  this  manifestation  of  the 
disease  is  observed,  the  observer  will  usually  connect  it 
with  a vague  impression  once  formed  or  received,  that  the 
patient  was  living  a little  too  hard.  He  will  scarcely  have 
had  leisure  to  turn  it  over  in  his  mind  and  form  the  terri- 
ble suspicion  ^^Dry  Bot,”  when  he  will  notice  a change  for 
the  worse  in  the  patient’s  appearance:  a certain  slovenli- 
ness and  deterioration,  which  is  not  poverty,  nor  dirt,  nor 
intoxication,  nor  ill-health,  but  simply  Dry  Bot.  To  this, 
succeeds  a smell  as  of  strong  waters,  in  the  morning;  to 
that,  a looseness  respecting  money;  to  that  a stronger 
smell  as  of  strong  waters,  at  all  times;  to  that,  a looseness 
respecting  everything;  to  that,  a trembling  of  the  limbs, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


127 


somnolency,  misery,  and  crumbling  to  pieces.  As  it  is  in 
wood,  so  it  is  in  men.  Dry  Kot  advances  at  a compound 
usury  quite  incalculable.  A plank  is  found  infected  with 
it,  and  the  whole  structure  is  devoted.  Thus  it  had  been 
with  the  unhappy  Horace  Kinch,  lately  buried  by  a small 
subscription.  Those  who  knew  him  had  not  nigh  done  say- 
ing, “ So  well  off,  so  comfortably  established,  with  such 
hope  before  him — and  yet,  it  is  feared,  with  a slight  touch 
of  Dry  Eot ! when  lo ! the  man  was  all  Dry  Rot  and 

dust. 

From  the  dead  wall  associated  on  those  houseless  nights 
with  this  too  common  story,  I chose  next  to  wander  by 
Bethlehem  Hospital;  partly,  because  it  lay  on  my  road 
round  to  Westminster;  partly,  because  I had  a night  fancy 
in  my  head  which  could  be  best  pursued  within  sight  of  its 
walls  and  dome.  And  the  fancy  was  this : Are  not  the 
sane  and  the  insane  equal  at  night  as  the  sane  lie  a dream- 
ing? Are  not  all  of  us  outside  this  hospital,  who  dream, 
more  or  less  in  the  condition  of  those  inside  it,  every  night 
of  our  lives?  Are  we  not  nightly  persuaded,  as  they  daily 
are,  that  we  associate  preposterously  with  kings  and  queens, 
emperors  and  empresses,  and  notabilities  of  all  sorts?  Do 
we  not  nightly  jumble  events  and  personages  and  times  and 
places,  as  these  do  daily?  Are  we  not  sometimes  troubled 
by  our  own  sleeping  inconsistencies,  and  do  we  not  vexedly 
try  to  account  for  them  or  excuse  them,  just  as  these  do 
sometimes  in  respect  of  their  waking  delusions?  Said  an 
afflicted  man  to  me,  when  I was  last  in  a hospital  like  this. 
Sir,  I can  frequently  fly.”  I was  half  ashamed  to  reflect 
that  so  could  I — by  night.  Said  a woman  to  me  on  the 
same  occasion,  Queen  Victoria  frequently  comes  to  dine 
with  me,  and  her  Majesty  and  I dine  off  peaches  and  mac- 
caroni  in  our  night-gowns,  and  his  Royal  Highness  the 
Prince  Consort  does  us  the  honour  to  make  a third  on  horse- 
back in  a Field-Mar shaPs  uniform.’^  Could  I refrain  from 
reddening  with  consciousness  when  I remembered  the  amaz- 
ing royal  parties  I myself  had  given  (at  night),  the  unac- 
countable viands  I had  put  on  table,  and  my  extraordinary 
manner  of  conducting  myself  on.  those  distinguished  occa- 
sions? I wonder  that  the  great  master  who  knew  every- 
thing, when  he  called  Sleep  the  death  of  each  day’s  life, 
did  not  call  Dreams  the  insanity  of  each  day’s  sanit3^ 

By  this  time  I had  left  the  Hospital  behind  me,  and  was 


128 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


again  setting  towards  the  river;  and  in  a short  breathing 
space  I was  on  Westminster-bridge,  regaling  my  houseless 
eyes  with  the  external  walls  of  the  British  Parliament— the 
perfection  of  a stupendous  institution,  I know,  and  the  ad- 
miration of  all  surrounding  nations  and  succeeding  ages, 
I do  not  doubt,  but  perhaps  a little  the  better  now  and 
then  for  being  pricked  up  to  its  work.  Turning  off  into 
Old  Palace-yard  the  Courts  of  Law  kept  me  company  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour;  hinting  in  low  whispers  what  numbers 
of  people  they  were  keeping  awake,  and  how  intensely 
wretched  and  horrible  they  were  rendering  the  small  hours 
to  unfortunate  suitors.  Westminster  Abbey  was  fine 
gloomy  society  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour;  suggesting 
a wonderful  procession  of  its  dead  among  the  dark  arches 
and  pillars,  each  century  more  amazed  by  the  century  fol- 
lowing it  than  by  all  the  centuries  going  before.  And  in- 
deed in  those  houseless  nightwalks — which  even  included 
cemeteries  where  watchmen  went  round  among  the  graves 
at  stated  times,  and  moved  the  telltale  handle  of  an  index 
which  recorded  that  they  had  touched  it  at  such  an  hour — 
it  was  a solemn  considej?ation  what  enormous  hosts  of  dead 
belong  to  one  old  great  city,  and  how,  if  they  were  raised 
while  the  living  slept,  there  would  not  be  the  space  of  a 
pin’s  point  in  all  the  streets  and  ways  for  the  living  to 
come  out  into.  Not  only  that,  but  the  vast  armies  of  dead 
would  overflow  the  hills  and  valleys  beyond  the  city,  and 
would  stretch  away  all  round  it,  God  knows  how  far. 

When  a church  clock  strikes,  on  houseless  ears  in  the 
dead  of  the  night,  it  may  be  at  first  mistaken  for  company 
and  hailed  as  such.  But,  as  the  spreading  circles  of  vibra- 
tion, which  you  may  perceive  at  such  a time  with  great 
clearness,  go  opening  out,  for  ever  and  ever  afterwards 
widening  perhaps  (as  the  philosopher  has  suggested)  in 
eternal  space,  the  mistake  is  rectified  and  the  sense  of 
loneliness  is  profounder.  Once — it  was  after  leaving  the 
Abbey  and  turning  ipy  face  north — I came  to  the  great 
steps  of  St.  Martin’s  church  as  the  clock  was  striking 
Three.  Suddenly,  a thing  that  in  a moment  more  I should 
have  trodden  upon  without  seeing,  rose  up  at  my  feet  with 
a cry  of  loneliness  and  houselessness,  struck  out  of  it  by  the 
bell,  the  like  of  which  I never  heard.  We  then  stood  face 
to  face  looking  at  one  another,  frightened  by  one  another. 
The  creature  was  like  a beetle-browed  hair-lipped  youth  of 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


129 


twenty,  and  it  had  a loose  bundle  of  rags  on,  which  it  held 
together  with  one  of  its  hands.  It  shivered  from  head  to 
foot,  and  its  teeth  chattered,  and  as  it  stared  at  me — perse- 
cutor, devil,  ghost,  whatever  it  thought  me — it  made  with 
its  whining  mouth  as  if  it  were  snapping  at  me,  like  a wor- 
ried dog.  Intending  to  give  this  ugly  object,  money,  I put 
out  my  hand  to  stay  it — for  it  recoiled  as  it  whined  and 
snapped — and  laid  my  hand  upon  its  shoulder.  Instantly, 
it  twisted  out  of  its  garment,  like  the  young  man  in  the 
Kew  Testament,  and  left  me  standing  alone  with  its  rags  in 
my  hand. 

Co  vent-garden  Market,  when  it  was  market  morning, 
was  wonderful  company.  The  great  waggons  of  cabbages, 
with  growers,  men  and  boys  lying  asleep  under  them,  and 
with  sharp  dogs  from  market-garden  neighbourhoods  look- 
ing after  the  whole,  were  as  good  as  a party.  But  one  of 
the  worst  night  sights  I know  in  London,  is  to  be  found  in 
the  children  who  prowl  about  this  place;  who  sleep  in  the 
baskets,  fight  for  the  offal,  dart  at  any  object  they  think 
they  can  lay  their  thieving  hands  on,  dive  under  the  carts 
and  barrows,  dodge  the  constables,  and  are  perpetually 
making  a blunt  pattering  on  the  pavement  of  the  Piazza 
with  the  rain  of  their  naked  feet.  A painful  and  unnat- 
ural result  comes  of  the  comparison  one  is  forced  to  insti- 
tute between  the  growth  of  corruption  as  displayed  in  the 
so  much  improved  and  cared  for  fruits  of  the  earth,  and 
the  growth  of  corruption  as  displayed  in  these  all  uncared 
for  (except  inasmuch  as  ever-hunted)  savages. 

There  was  early  coffee  to  be  got  about  Covent-garden 
Market,  and  that  was  more  company — warm  company,  too, 
which  was  better.  Toast  of  a very  substantial  quality,  was 
likewise  procurable : though  the  towzled-headed  man  who 
made  it,  in  an  inner  chamber  within  the  coffee-room,  hadn’t 
got  his  coat  on  yet,  and  was  so  heavy  with  sleep  that  in 
every  interval  of  toast  and  coffee  he  went  off  anew  behind 
the  partition  into  complicated  cross-roads  of  choke  and 
snore,  and  lost  his  way  directly.  Into  one  of  these  estab- 
lishments (among  the  earliest)  near  Bow-street,  there 
came  one  morning  as  I sat  over  my  houseless  cup,  ponder- 
ing where  to  go  next,  a man  in  a high  and  long  snuff-col- 
oured coat,  and  shoes,  and,  to  the  best  of  my  belief,  nothing 
else  but  a hat,  who  took  out  of  his  hat  a large  cold  meat 
pudding;  a meat  pudding  so  large  that  it  was  a very  tight 


130 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


fit,  and  brought  the  lining  of  the  hat  out  with  it.  This 
mysterious  man  was  known  by  his  pudding,  for  on  his 
entering,  the  man  of  sleep  brought  him  a pint  of  hot  tea,  a 
small  loaf,  and  a large  knife  and  fork  and  plate.  Left  to 
himself  in  his  box,  he  stood  the  pudding  on  the  bare  table, 
and,  instead  of  cutting  it,  stabbed  it,  over-hand,  with  the 
knife,  like  a mortal  enemy;  then  took  the  knife  out,  wiped 
it  on  his  sleeve,  tore  the  pudding  asunder  with  his  fingers, 
and  ate  it  all  up.  The  remembrance  of  this  man  with  the 
pudding  remains  with  me  as  the  remembrance  of  the  most 
spectral  person  my  houselessness  encountered.  Twice  only 
was  I in  that  establishment,  and  twice  I saw  him  stalk  in 
(as  I should  say,  just  out  of  bed,  and  presently  going  back 
to  bed),  take  out  his  pudding,  stab  his  pudding,  wipe  the 
dagger,  and  eat  his  pudding  all  up.  He  was  a man  whose 
figure  promised  cadaverousness,  but  who  had  an  excessively 
red  face,  though  shaped  like  a horse^s.  On  the  second 
occasion  of  my  seeing  him,  he  said,  huskily  to  the  man  of 
sleep,  ^^Am  I red  to-night?’^  You  are, he  uncompro- 
misingly answered.  ^^My  mother, said  the  spectre,  “was 
a red-faced  woman  that  liked  drink,  and  I looked  at  her 
hard  when  she  laid  in  her  coffin,  and  I took  the  com- 
plexion,” Somehow,  the  pudding  seemed  an  unwholesome 
pudding  after  that,  and  I put  myself  in  its  way  no  more. 

When  there  was  no  market,  or  when  I wanted  variety,  a 
railway  terminus  with  the  morning  mails  coming  in,  was 
remunerative  company.  But  like  most  of  the  company  to 
be  had  in  this  world,  it  lasted  only  a very  short  time. 
The  station  lamps  would  burst  out  ablaze,  the  porters  would 
emerge  from  places  of  concealment,  the  cabs  and  trucks 
would  rattle  to  their  places  (the  post-office  carts  were  al- 
ready in  theirs),  and,  finally,  the  bell  would  strike  up,  and 
the  train  would  come  banging  in.  But  there  were  few  pas- 
sengers and  little  luggage,  and  everything  scuttled  away 
with  the  greatest  expedition.  The  locomotive  post-offices, 
with  their  great  nets — as  if  they  had  been  dragging  the 
country  for  bodies — would  fly  open  as  to  their  doors,  and 
would  disgorge  a smell  of  lamp,  an  exhausted  clerk,  a 
guard  in  a red  coat,  and  their  bags  of  letters;  the  engine 
would  blow  and  heave  and  perspire,  like  an  engine  wiping 
its  forehead  and  saying  what  a run  it  had  had;  and  within 
ten  minutes  the  lamps  were  out,  and  I was  houseless  and 
alone  again. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


131 


But  now,  there  were  driven  cattle  on  the  high  road  near, 
wanting  (as  cattle  always  do)  to  turn  into  the  midst  of 
stone  walls,  and  squeeze  themselves  through  six  inches^ 
width  of  iron  railing,  and  getting  their  heads  down  (also 
as  cattle  always  do)  for  tossing-purchase  at  quite  imaginary 
dogs,  and  giving  themselves  and  every  devoted  creature  as- 
sociated with  them  a most  extraordinary  amount  of  unnec- 
• essary  trouble.  Now,  too,  the  conscious  gas  began  to  grow 
pale  with  the  knowledge  that  daylight  was  coming,  and 
straggling  workpeople  were  already  in  the  streets,  and,  as 
waking  life  had  become  extinguished  with  the  last  pie- 
man’s sparks,  so  it  began  to  be  rekindled  with  the  fires  of 
the  first  street  corner  breakfast-sellers.  And  so  by  faster 
and  faster  degrees,  until  the  last  degrees  were  very  fast, 
the  day  came,  and  I was  tired  and  could  sleep.  And  it  is 
! not,  as  I used  to  think,  going  home  at  such  times,  the  least 
wonderful  thing  in  London,  that  in  the  real  desert  region 
of  the  night,  the  houseless  wanderer  is  alone  there.  I 
I knew  well  enough  where  to  find  Vice  and  Misfortune  of  all 
kinds,  if  I had  chosen ; but  they  were  put  out  of  sight,  and 
my  houselessness  had  many  miles  upon  miles  of  streets  in 
which  it  could,  and  did,  have  its  own  solitary  way. 


XIV. 

CHAMBERS. 

I Having  occasion  to  transact  some  business  with  a solici- 
tor who  occupies  a highly  suicidal  set  of  chambers  in 
Gray’s  Inn,  I afterwards  took  a turn  in  the  large  square  of 
that  stronghold  of  Melancholy,  reviewing,  with  congenial 
surroundings,  my  experiences  of  Chambers. 

* I began,  as  was  natural,  with  the  Chambers  I had  just 
left.  They  were  an  upper  set  on  a rotten  staircase,  with  a 
mysterious  bunk  or  bulkhead  on  the  landing  outside  them, 
of  a rather  nautical  and  Screw  Collier-like  appearance  than 
otherwise,  and  painted  an  intense  black.  Many  dusty 
years  have  passed  since  the  appropriation  of  this  Davy 

' Jones’s  locker  to  any  purpose,  and  during  the  whole  period 
within  the  memory  of  living  man,  it  has  been  hasped  and 


132 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


padlocked.  I cannot  quite  satisfy  my  mind  whether  it  was 
originally  meant  for  the  reception  of  coals,  or  bodies,  or  as 
a place  of  temporary  security  for  the  plunder  looted  ” by 
laundresses;  but  I incline  to  the  last  opinion.  It  is  about 
breast  high,  and  usually  serves  as  a bulk  for  defendants  in 
reduced  circumstances  to  lean  against  and  ponder  at,  when 
they  come  on  the  hopeful  errand  of  trying  to  make  an  ar- 
rangement without  money — under  which  auspicious  circum- 
stances it  mostly  happens  that  the  legal  gentleman  they 
want  to  see,  is  much  engaged,  and  they  pervade  the  stair- 
case for  a considerable  period.  Against  this  opposing  bulk, 
in  the  absurdest  manner,  the  tomb-like  outer  door  of  the 
solicitor’s  chambers  (which  is  also  of  an  intense  black) 
stands  in  dark  ambush,  half  open,  and  half  shut,  all  day. 
The  solicitor’s  apartments  are  three  in  number;  consisting 
of  a slice,  a cell,  and  a wedge.  The  slice  is  assigned  to  the 
two  clerks;  the  cell  is  occupied  by  the  principal,  and  the 
wedge  is  devoted  to  stray  papers,  old  game  baskets  from 
the  country,  a washing-stand,  and  a model  of  a patent 
Ship’s  Caboose  which  was  exhibited  in  Chancery  at  the 
commencement  of  the  present  century  on  an  application  for 
an  injunction  to  restrain  infringement.  At  about  half-past 
nine  on  every  week-day  morning,  the  younger  of  the  two 
clerks  (who,  I have  reason  to  believe,  leads  the  fashion  at 
Fenton ville  in  the  articles  of  pipes  and  shirts)  may  be 
found  knocking  the  dust  out  of  his  official  door-key  on  the 
bunk  or  locker  before  mentioned;  and  so  exceedingly  sub- 
ject to  dust  is  his  key,  and  so  very  retentive  of  that  super- 
fluity, that  in  exceptional  summer  weather  when  a ray  of 
sunlight  has  fallen  on  the  locker  in  my  presence,  I have 
noticed  its  inexpressive  countenance  to  be  deeply  marked 
by  a kind  of  Bramah  erysipelas  or  small-pox. 

This  set  of  chambers  (as  I have  gradually  discovered, 
Avhen  I have  had  restless  occasion  to  make  inquiries  or 
leave  messages,  after  office  hours)  is  under  the  charge  of  a 
lady  named  Sweeney,  in  figure  extremely  like  an  old  fam- 
ily-umbrella : whose  dwelling  confronts  a dead  wall  in  a 
court  off  Gray’s  Inn-lane,  and  who  is  usually  fetched  into 
the  passage  of  that  bower,  when  wanted,  from  some  neigh- 
bouring home  of  industry,  which  has  the  curious  property 
of  imparting  an  inflammatory  appearance  to  her  visage. 
Mrs.^  Sweeney  is  one  of  the  race  of  professed  laundresses, 
and  is  the  compiler  of  a remarkable  manuscript  volume  en- 


*1 


i 

4 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


133 


titled  ‘^Mrs.  Sweeney’s  Book,”  from  wliicli  much  curious 
statistical  information  may  be  gathered  respecting  the  high 
prices  and  small  uses  of  soda,  soap,  sand,  firewood,  and 
other  such  articles.  I have  created  a legend  in  my  mind — 
and  consequently  I believe  it  with  the  utmost  pertinacity 
— that  the  late  Mr.  Sweeney  was  a ticket-porter  under  the 
Honourable  Society  of  Gray’s  Inn,  and  that,  in  considera- 
tion of  his  long  and  valuable  services,  Mrs.  Sweeney  was 
appointed  to  her  present  post.  For,  though  devoid  of  per- 
sonal charms,  I have  observed  this  lady  to  exercise  a fas- 
cination over  the  elderly  ticket-porter  mind  (particularly 
under  the  gateway,  and  in  corners  and  entries),  which  I 
can  only  refer  to  her  being  one  of  the  fraternity,  yet  not 
competing  with  it.  All  that  need  be  said  concerning  this 
set  of  chambers,  is  said,  when  I have  added  that  it  is  in  a 
large  double  house  in  Gray’s  Inn-square,  very  much  out  of 
repair,  and  that  the  outer  portal  is  ornamented  in  a hideous 
manner  with  certain  stone  remains,  which  have  the  appear- 
ance of  the  dismembered  bust,  torso,  and  limbs  of  a petri- 
fied bencher. 

Indeed,  I look  upon  Gray’s  Inn  generally  as  one  of  the 
most  depressing  institutions  in  brick  and  mortar,  known  to 
the  children  of  men.  Can  anything  be  more  dreary  than 
its  arid  Square,  Saharah  Desert  of  the  law,  with  the  ugly 
old  tiled-topped  tenements,  the  dirty  windows,  the  bills  To 
Let  To  Let,  the  door-posts  inscribed  like  gravestones,  the 
crazy  gateway  giving  upon  the  filthy  Lane,  the  scowling 
iron-barred  prison-like  passage  into  Verulam-buildings,  the 
mouldy  red-nosed  ticket-porters  with  little  coffin  plates  and 
why  with  aprons,  the  dry  hard  atomy-like  appearance  of  the 
whole  dust-heap?  When  my  uncommercial  travels  tend  to 
this  dismal  spot,  my  comfort  is  its  rickety  state.  Imagina- 
tion gloats  over  the  fulness  of  time  when  the  staircases 
shall  have  quite  tumbled  down — they  are  daily  wearing 
into  an  ill-savoured  powder,  but  have  not  quite  tumbled 
down  yet — when  the  last  old  prolix  bencher  all  of  the  olden 
time,  shall  have  been  got  out  of  an  upper  window  by  means 
of  a Fire  Ladder,  and  carried  off  to  the  Holborn  Union; 
when  the  last  clerk  shall  have  engrossed  the  last  parch- 
ment behind  the  last  splash  on  the  last  of  the  mud-stained 
windows,  which,  all  through  the  miry  year,  are  pilloried 
out  of  recognition  in  Gray’s  Inn-lane.  Then,  shall  a 
squalid  little  trench,  with  rank  grass  and  a pump  in  it,  ly- 


134 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


ing  between  the  coffee-house  and  South-square,  be  wholly 
given  up  to  cats  and  rats,  and  not,  as  now,  have  its  empire 
divided  between  those  animals  and  a few  briefless  bipeds— 
surely  called  to  the  Bar  by  voices  of  deceiving  spirits,  see- 
ing that  they  are  wanted  there  by  no  mortal — who  glance 
down,  with  eyes  better  glazed  than  their  casements,  from 
their  dreary  and  lack-lustre  rooms.  Then  shall  the  way 
Nor^  Westward,  now  lying  under  a short  grim  colonnade 
where  in  summer  time  pounce  flies  from  law  stationering 
windows  into  the  eyes  of  laymen,  be  choked  with  rubbish 
and  happily  become  impassable.  Then  shall  the  gardens 
where  turf,  trees,  and  gravel  wear  a legal  livery  of  black, 
run  rank,  and  pilgrims  go  to  Gorhambury  to  see  Bacon’s 
effigy  as  he  sat,  and  not  come  here  (which  in  truth  they 
seldom  do)  to  see  where  he  walked.  Then,  in  a word, 
shall  the  old-established  vendor  of  periodicals  sit  alone  in 
his  little  crib  of  a shop  behind  the  Holborn  Gate,  like  that 
lumbering  Marius  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage,  who  has 
sat  heavy  on  a thousand  million  of  similes. 

At  one  period  of  my  uncommercial  career  I much  fre- 
quented another  set  of  chambers  in  Gray’s  Inn-square. 
They  were  what  is  familiarly  called  top  set,”  and  all 
the  eatables  and  drinkables  introduced  into  them  acquired 
a flavour  of  Cockloft.  I have  known  an  unopened  Stras- 
bourg p^te  fresh  from  Fortnum  and  Mason’s,  to  draw  in 
this  cockloft  tone  through  its  crockery  dish,  and  become 
penetrated  with  cockloft  to  the  core  of  its  inmost  truffle 
in  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  This,  however,  was  not  the 
most  curious  feature  of  those  chambers;  that,  consisted  in 
the  profound  conviction  entertained  by  my  esteemed  friend 
Parkle  (their  tenant)  that  they  were  clean.  Whether  it 
was  an  inborn  hallucination,  or  whether  it  was  imparted  to 
him  by  Mrs.  Miggot  the  laundress,  I never  could  ascertain. 
But,  I believe  he  would  have  gone  to  the  stake  upon  the 
question.  Now,  they  were  so  dirty  that  I could  take  off 
the  distinctest  impression  of  my  figure  on  any  article  of 
furniture  by  merely  lounging  upon  it  for  a few  moments; 
and  it  used  to  be  a private  amusement  of  mine  to  print  my- 
self off — if  I may  use  the  expression — all  over  the  rooms. 
It  was  the  first  large  circulation  I had.  At  other  times  I 
have  accidentally  shaken  a window  curtain  while  in  ani- 
mated conversation  with  Parkle,  and  struggling  insects 
which  were  certainly  red,  and  were  certainly  not  ladybirds, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


135 


have  dropped  on  the  back  of  my  hand.  Yet  Parkle  lived 
in  that  top  set  years,  bound  body  and  soul  to  the  supersti- 
tion that  they  were  clean.  He  used  to  say,  when  congrat- 
ulated upon  them,  Well,  they  are  not  like  chambers  in 
one  respect,  you  know;  they  are  clean. Concurrently,  he 
had  an  idea  which  he  could  never  explain,  that  Mrs.  Mig- 
got  was  in  some  way  connected  with  the  Church.  When 
he  was  in  particularly  good  spirits,  he  used  to  believe  that 
a deceased  uncle  of  hers  had  been  a Dean;  when  he  was 
poorly  and  low,  he  believed  that  her  brother  had  been  a 
Curate.  I and  Mrs.  Miggot  (she  was  a genteel  woman) 
were  on  confidential  terms,  but  I never  knew  her  to  commit 
herself  to  any  distinct  assertion  on  the  subject;  she  merely 
claimed  a proprietorship  in  the  Church,  by  looking  when  it 
was  mentioned,  as  if  the  reference  awakened  the  slumber- 
ing Past,  and  were  personal.  It  may  have  been  his  amia- 
ble confidence  in  Mrs.  MiggoUs  better  days  that  inspired 
my  friend  with  his  delusion  respecting  the  chambers,  but 
he  never  wavered  in  his  fidelity  to  it  for  a moment,  though 
he  wallowed  in  dirt  seven  years. 

Two  of  the  windows  of  these  chambers  looked  down  into 
the  garden;  and  we  have  sat  up  there  together  many  a 
summer  evening,  saying  how  pleasant  it  was,  and  talking 
of  many  things.  To  my  intimacy  with  that  top  set,  I am 
indebted  for  three  of  my  liveliest  personal  impressions  of 
the  loneliness  of  life  in  chambers.  They  shall  follow  here, 
in  order;  first,  second,  and  third. 

First.  My  Gray’s  Inn  friend,  on  a time,  hurt  one  of  his 
legs,  and  it  became  seriously  inflamed.  Not  knowing  of 
his  indisposition,  I was  on  my  way  to  visit  him  as  usual, 
one  summer  evening,  when  I was  much  surprised  by  meet- 
ing a lively  leech  in  Field-court,  Gray’s  Inn,  seemingly  on 
his  way  to  the  V^est  End  of  London.  As  the  leech  was 
alone,  and  was  of  course  unable  to  explain  his  position, 
even  if  he  had  been  inclined  to  do  so  (which  he  had  not 
the  appearance  of  being),  I passed  him  and  went  on. 
Turning  the  corner  of  Gray’s  Inn-square,  I was  beyond 
expression  amazed  by  meeting  another  leech — also  entirely 
alone,  and  also  proceeding  in  a westerly  direction,  though 
with  less  decision  of  purpose.  Ruminating  on  this  ex- 
traordinary circumstance,  and  endeavouring  to  remember 
whether  I had  ever  read,  in  the  Philosophical  Transactions 
or  any  work  on  Natural  History,  of  a migration  of  Leeches, 


13G 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


I ascended  to  the  top  set,  past  the  dreary  series  of  closed 
outer  doors  of  offices  and  an  empty  set  or  two,  which  inter- 
vened between  that  lofty  region  and  the  surface.  Entering 
my  friend’s  rooms,  I found  him  stretched  upon  his  back, 
like  Prometheus  Bound,  with  a perfectly  demented  ticket- 
porter  in  attendance  on  him  instead  of  the  Vulture : which 
helpless  individual,  who  was  feeble  and  frightened,  and 
had  (my  friend  explained  to  me,  in  great  choler)  been  en- 
deavouring for  some  hours  to  apply  leeches  to  his  leg,  and 
as  yet  had  only  got  on  two  out  of  twenty.  To  this  Unfor- 
tunate’s distraction  between  a damp  cloth  on  which  he  had 
placed  the  leeches  to  freshen  them,  and  the  wrathful  ad- 
jurations of  my  friend  to  “Stick  ’em  on,  sir!”  I referred 
the  phenomenon  I had  encountered : the  rather  as  two  fine 
specimens  were  at  that  moment  going  out  at  the  door, 
while  a general  insurrection  of  the  rest  was  in  progress  on 
the  table.  After  a while  our  united  efforts  prevailed,  and, 
when  the  leeches  came  off  and  had  recovered  their  spirits, 
we  carefully  tied  them  up  in  a decanter.  But  I never  heard 
more  of  them  than  that  they  were  all  gone  next  morning, 
and  that  the  Out-of-door  young  man  of  Bickle  Bush  and 
Bodger,  on  the  ground  floor,  had  been  bitten  and  blooded 
by  some  creature  not  identified.  They  never  “ took  ” on 
Mrs.  Miggot,  the  laundress;  but,  I have  always  preserved 
fresh,  the  belief  that  she  unconsciously  carried  several 
about  her,  until  they  gradually  found  openings  in  life. 

Second.  On  the  same  staircase  with  my  friend  Parkle, 
and  on  the  same  floor,  there  lived  a man  of  law  who  pur- 
sued his  business  elsewhere,  and  used  those  chambers  as 
his  place  of  residence.  For  three  or  four  years,  Parkle 
rarther  knew  of  him  than  knew  him,  but  after  that — for 
Englishmen — short  pause  of  consideration,  they  began  to 
speak.  Parkle  exchanged  words  with  him  in  his  private 
character  only,  and  knew  nothing  of  his  business  ways,  or 
means.  He  was  a man  a good  deal  about  town,  but  always 
alone.  We  used  to  remark  to  one  another,  that  although 
we  often  encountered  him  in  theatres,  concert-rooms,  and 
similar  public  places,  he  was  always  alone.  Yet  he  was 
not  a gloomy  man,  and  was  of  a decidedly  conversational 
turn;  insomuch  that  he  would  sometimes  of  an  evening 
lounge  with  a cigar  in  his  mouth,  half  in  and  half  out  of 
Parkle’ s rooms,  and  discuss  the  topics  of  the  day  by  the 
hour.  He  used  to  hint  on  these  occasions  that  he  had  four 


THE  UKCOMMEUCIAL  TRAVELLER 


137 


faults  to  find  with  life;  firstly,  that  it  obliged  a man  to  be 
always  winding  up  his  watch;  secondly,  that  London  was 
too  small;  thirdly,  that  it  therefore  wanted  variety;  fourth- 
ly that  there  was  too  much  dust  in  it.  There  was  so  much 
dust  in  his  own  faded  chambers,  certainly,  that  they  re- 
minded me  of  a sepulchre,  furnished  in  prophetic  anticipa- 
tion of  the  present  time,  which  had  newly  been  brought  to 
light,  after  having  remained  buried  a few  thousand  years. 
One  dry  hot  autumn  evening  at  twilight,  this  man,  being 
then  five  years  turned  of  fifty,  looked  in  upon  Parkle  in  his 
usual  lounging  way,  with  his  cigar  in  his  mouth  as  usual, 
and  said,  ‘‘I  am  going  out  of  town.^^  As  he  never  went 
out  of  town,  Parkle  said,  ‘‘  Oh  indeed ! At  last?  ” Yes,’’ 
says  he,  at  last.  For  what  is  a man  to  do?  London  is  so 
small!  If  you  go  West,  you  come  to  Hounslow.  If  you 
go  East,  you  come  to  Bow.  If  you  go  South,  there’s  Brix- 
ton  or  Norwood.  If  you  go  North,  you  can’t  get  rid  of 
Barnet.  Then,  the  monotony  of  all  the  streets,  streets, 
streets — and  of  all  the  roads,  roads,  roads — and  the  dust, 
dust,  dust  I ” When  he  had  said  this,  he  wished  Parkle  a 
good  evening,  but  came  back  again  and  said,  with  his  watch 
in  his  hand,  Oh,  I really  cannot  go  on  winding  up  this 
watch  over  and  over  again;  I wish  you  would  take  care  of 
it.”  So,  Parkle  laughed  and  consented,  and  the  man  went 
out  of  town.  The  man  remained  out  of  town  so  long,  that 
his  letter-box  became  choked,  and  no  more  letters  could 
be  got  into  it,  and  they  began  to  be  left  at  the  lodge  and  to 
accumulate  there.  At  last  the  head-porter  decided,  on  con- 
ference with  the  steward,  to  use  his  master-key  and  look 
into  the  chambers,  and  give  them  the  benefit  of  a whiff  of 
air.  Then,' it  was  found  that  he  had  hanged  himself  to  his 
bedstead,  and  had  left  this  written  memorandum:  ‘^I 

should  prefer  to  be  cut  down  by  my  neighbour  and  friend 
(if  he  will  allow  me  to  call  him  so),  H.  Parkle,  Esq.” 
This  was  an  end  of  Parkle’s  occupancy  of  chambers.  He 
went  into  lodgings  immediately. 

Third.  While  Parkle  lived  in  Gray’s  Inn,  and  I myself 
was  uncommercially  preparing  for  the  Bar — which  is  done, 
as  everybody  knows,  by  having  a frayed  old  gown  put  on 
in  a pantry  by  an  old  woman  in  a chronic  state  of  Saint 
Anthony’s  fire  and  dropsy,  and,  so  decorated,  bolting  a bad 
dinner  in  a party  of  four,  whereof  each  individual  mistrusts 
the  other  three — I say,  while  these  things  were,  there  was 


138 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


a certain  elderly  gentleman  who  lived  in  a court  of  the 
Temple,  and  was  a great  judge  and  lover  of  port  wine. 
Every  day  he  dined  at  his  club  and  drank  his  bottle  or  two 
of  port  wine,  and  every  night  came  home  to  the  Temple 
and  went  to  bed  in  his  lonely  chambers.  This  had  gone  on 
many  years  without  variation,  when  one  night  he  had  a fit 
on  coming  home,  and  fell  and  cut  his  head  deep,  but  partly 
recovered  and  groped  about  in  the  dark  to  find  the  door. 
When  he  was  afterwards  discovered,  dead,  it  was  clearly 
established  by  the  marks  of  his  hands  about  the  room  that 
he  must  have  done  so.  Now,  this  chanced  on  the  night  of 
Christmas  Eve,  and  over  him  lived  a young  fellow  who  had 
sisters  and  young  country-friends,  and  who  gave  them  a 
little  party  that  night,  in  the  course  of  which  they  played 
at  Blindman’s  Buff.  They  played  that  game,  for  their 
greater  sport,  by  the  light  of  the  fire  only;  and  once,  when 
they  were  all  quietly  rustling  and  stealing  about,  and  the 
blindman  was  trying  to  pick  out  the  prettiest  sister  (for 
which  I am  far  from  blaming  him),  somebody  cried.  Hark! 
The  man  below  must  be  playing  Blindman’s  Buff  by  him- 
self to-night ! They  listened,  and  they  heard  sounds  of 
some  one  falling  about  and  stumbling  against  furniture, 
and  they  all  laughed  at  the  conceit,  and  went  on  with  their 
play,  more  lighthearted  and  merry  than  ever.  Thus,  those 
two  so  different  games  of  life  and  death  were  played  out 
together,  blindfolded,  in  the  two  sets  of  chambers. 

Such  are  the  occurrences,  which,  coming  to  my  knowl- 
edge, imbued  me  long  ago  with  a strong  sense  of  the  loneli- 
ness of  chambers.  There  was  a fantastic  illustration  to 
much  the  same  purpose  implicitly  believed  by  a strange  sort 
of  man  now  dead,  whom  I knew  when  I had  not  quite  ar- 
rived at  legal  years  of  discretion,  though  I was  already  in 
the  uncommercial  line. 

This  was  a man  who,  though  not  more  than  thirty,  had 
seen  the  world  in  divers  irreconcilable  capacities — had  been 
an  officer  in  a South  American  regiment  among  other  odd 
things — but  had  not  achieved  much  in  any  way  of  life,  and 
was  in  debt,  and  in  hiding.  He  occupied  cham^bers  of  the 
dreariest  nature  in  Lyons  Inn;  his  name,  however,  was  not 
up  on  the  door,  or  door-post,  but  in  lieu  of  it  stood  the 
name  of  a friend  who  had  died  in  the  chambers,  and  had 
given  him  the  furniture.  The  story  arose  out  of  the  furni- 
ture, and  was  to  this  effect : — Let  the  former  holder  of  the 


THE  UNCOMMEKCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


139 


chambers,  whose  name  was  still  upon  the  door  and  door- 
)ost,  be  Mr.  Testator. 

Mr.  Testator  took  a set  of  chambers  in  Lyons  Inn  when 
le  had  but  very  scanty  furniture  for  his  bedroom,  and  none 
or  his  sitting  room.  He  had  lived  some  wintry  months  in 
his  condition,  and  had  found  it  very  bare  and  cold.  One 
light,  past  midnight,  when  he  sat  writing  and  still  had 
vriting  to  do  that  must  be  done  before  he  went  to  bed,  he 
ound  himself  out  of  coals.  He  had  coals  down-stairs,  but 
lad  never  been  to  his  cellar;  however,  the  cellar-key  was 
m his  mantelshelf,  and  if  he  went  down  and  opened  the 
ellar  it  fitted,  he  might  fairly  assume  the  coals  in  that 
ellar  to  be  his.  As  to  his  laundress,  she  lived  among 
he  coal-waggons  and  Thames  watermen — for  there  were 
Chames  watermen  at  that  time — in  some  unknown  rat-hole 
)y  the  river,  down  lanes  and  alleys  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Ui*and.  As  to  any  other  person  to  meet  him  or  obstruct 
dm,  Lyons  Inn  was  dreaming,  drunk,  maudlin,  moody, 
|)etting,  brooding  over  bill-discounting  or  renewing — asleep 
•r  awake,  minding  its  own  affairs.  Mr.  Testator  cook  his 
oal-scuttle  in  one  hand,  his  candle  and  key  in  the  other, 
lid  descended  to  the  dismalest  underground  dens  of  Lyons 
nn,  where  the  late  vehicles  in  the  streets  became  tlmnder- 
»us,  and  all  the  water-pipes  in  the  neighbourhood  seemed 
o have  Macbeth’s  Amen  sticking  in  their  throats,  and  to 
>e  trying  to  get  it  out.  After  groping  here  and  there 
,mong  low  doors  to  no  purpose,  Mr.  Testator  at  length 
ame  to  a door  with  a rusty  padlock  which  his  key  fitted, 
jetting  the  door  open  with  much  trouble,  and  looking 
11,  he  found,  no  coals,  but  a confused  pile  of  furniture. 
Harmed  by  this  intrusion  on  another  man’s  property,  he 
ocked  the  door  again,  found  his  own  cellar,  filled  his  scut- 
le,  and  returned  up-stairs.  * 

But  the  furniture  he  had  seen,  ran  on  castors  across  and^ 
cross  Mr.  Testator’s  mind  incessantly,  when,  in  the  chill 
lOur  of  five  in  the  morning,  he  got  to  bed.  He  particularly 
/anted  a table  to  write  at,  and  a table  expressly  made  to 
■e  written  at,  had  been  the  piece  of  furniture  in  the  fore- 
round of  the  heap.  When  his  laundress  emerged  from  her  ♦ 
urrow  in  the  morning  to  make  his  kettle  boil,  he  artfully 
3d  up  to  the  subject  of  cellars  and  furniture;  but  the  two 
leas  had  evidently  no  connection  in  her  mind.  When 
he  left  him,  and  he  sat  at  his  breakfast,  thinking  about 


140 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


the  furniture,  he  recalled  the  rusty  state  of  the  padlock, 
and  inferred  that  the  furniture  must  have  been  stored  in 
the  cellars  for  a long  time — was  perhaps  forgotten — ownei 
dead,  perhaps?  After  thinking  it  over,  a few  days,  in  the 
course  of  which  he  could  pump  nothing  out  of  Lyons  Inn 
about  the  furniture,  he  became  desperate,  and  resolved  to 
borrow  that  table.  He  did  so,  that  night.  He  had  not  had 
the  table  long,  when  he  determined  to  borrow  an  easy- 
chair;  he  had  not  had  that  long,  when  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  borrow  a bookcase;  then,  a couch;  then,  a carpet 
and  rug.  By  that  time,  he  felt  he  was  ^4n  furniture 
stepped  in  so  far,”  as  that  it  could  be  no  worse  to  borrow 
it  all.  Consequently,  he  borrowed  it  all,  and  locked  up 
the  cellar  for  good.  He  had  always  locked  it,  after  every 
visit.  He  had  carried  up  every  separate  article  in  the  dead 
of  the  night,  and,  at  the  best,  had  felt  as  wicked  as  a Res- 
urrection Man.  Every  article  was  blue  and  furry  when 
brought  into  his  rooms,  and  he  had  had,  in  a murderous 
and  guilty  sort  of  way,  to  polish  it  up  while  London  slept. 

Mr.  Testator  lived  in  his  furnished  chambers  two  or 
three  years,  or  more,  and  gradually  lulled  himself  into  the 
opinion  that  the  furniture  was  his  own.  This  was  his  con- 
venient state  of  mind  when,  late  one  night,  a step  came  up 
the  stairs,  and  a hand  passed  over  his  door  feeling  for  his^ 
knocker,  and  then  one  deep  and  solemn  rap  was  rapped 
that  might  have  been  a spring  in  Mr.  Testator’s  easy-chair 
to  shoot  him  out  of  it;  so  promptly  was  it  attended  with 
that  effect. 

With  a candle  in  his  hand,  Mr.  Testator  went  to  the 
door,  and  found  there,  a very  pale  and  very  tall  man;  a 
man  who  stooped;  a man  with  very  high  shoulders,  a very 
narrow  chest,  and  a very  red  nose;  a shabby-genteel  man. 
He  was  wrapped  in  a long  threadbare  black  coa"t,  fastened 
.up  the  front  with  more  pins  than  buttons,  and  under  his 
arm  he  squeezed  an  umbrella  without  a handle,  as  if  he 
were  playing  bagpipes.  He  said,  ask  your  pardon,  but 

can  you  tell  me ” and  stopped;  his  eyes  resting  on  some 

object  within  the  chambers. 

Can  I tell  you  what?  ” asked  Mr.  Testator,  noting  his 
stoppage  with  quick  alarm. 

‘‘I  ask  your  pardon,”  said  the  stranger,  ^^but — this  is 
not  the  inquiry  I was  going  to  make — do  I see  in  there,  any 
small  article  of  property  belonging  to 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


141 


Mr.  Testator  was  beginning  to  stammer  that  he  was  not 
[[aware — when  the  visitor  slipped  past  him,  into  the  cham- 
bers. There,  in  a goblin  way  which  froze  Mr.  Testator  to 
the  marrow,  he  examined,  first,  the  writing-table,  and  said, 
“Mine;’^  then,  the  easy-chair,  and  said,  ^^Mine;^^  then, 
bhe  bookcase,  and  said,  “Mine;  then,  turned  up  a corner 
of  the  carpet,  and  said,  “ Mine  I’’  in  a word,  inspected 
.every  item  of  furniture  from  the  cellar,  in  succession,  and 
^5aid,  “ Mine ! ’’  Towards  the  end  of  this  investigation, 
Mr.  Testator  perceived  that  he  was  sodden  with  liquor,  and 
bhat  the  liquor  was  gin.  He  was  not  unsteady  with  gin, 
^.either  in  his  speech  or  carriage;  but  he  was  stiff  with  gin 
in  both  particulars. 

Mr.  Testator  was  in  a dreadful  state,  for  (according  to 
his  making  out  of  the  story)  the  possible  consequences  of 
what  he  had  done  in  recklessness  and  hardihood,  flashed 
upon  him  in  their  fulness  for  the  first  time.  When  they 
iiad  stood  g-azing  at  one  another  for  a little  while,  he  trem- 


“ ISir,  i am  conscious  that  the  fullest  explanation,  com- 
pensation, and  restitution,  are  your  due.  They  shall  be 
yours.  Allow  me  to  entreat  that,  without  temper,  with- 
out even  natural  irritation  on  ^ our  part,  we  may  have  a 
.ittle ” 

“Drop  of  something  to  drink, interposed  the  stranger. 
^ I am  agreeable.’^ 

Mr.  Testator  had  intended  to  say,  “a  little  quiet  con- 
versation,” but  with  great  relief  of  mind  adopted  the 
. imendment.  He  produced  a decanter  of  gin,  and  was  bus- 
ding  about  for  hot  water  and  sugar,  when  he  found  that 
, lis  visitor  had  already  drunk  half  of  the  decanter’s  con- 
sents. With  hot  water  and  sugar  the  visitor  drank  the  re- 
mainder before  he  had  been  an  hour  in  the  chambers  by 
she  chimes  of  the  church  of  St.  Mary  in  the  Strand;  and 
luring  the  process  he  frequently  whispered  to  himself, 
^‘Mine!” 

The  gin  gone,  and  Mr.  Testator  wondering  what  was  to 
sollow  it,  the  visitor  rose  and  said,  with  increased  stiffness, 

‘ At  what  hour  of  the  morning,  sir,  will  it  be  convenient?  ” 
Mr.  Testator  hazarded,  “At  ten?”  “Sir,”  said  the  visi- 
sor,  “at  ten,  to  the  moment,  I shall  be  here.”  He  then 
jontemplated  Mr.  Testator  somewhat  at  leisure,  and  said, 
‘God  bless  you ! How  is  your  wife?  ” Mr.  Testator  (who 


142 


THK  UNCOMMEP.CTAL  TRAVELLER. 


never  had  a wife)  replied  with  miicli  feeling,  ‘‘Deeply  anx-  j 
ions,  poor  soul,  but  otherwise  well.’’  The  visitor  there-! 
upon  turned  and  went  away,  and  fell  twice  in  going  down- 
stairs. From  that  hour  he  was  never  heard  of.  Whether 
he  was  a ghost,  or  a spectral  illusion  of  conscience,  or  a 
drunken  man  who  had  no  business  there,  or  the  drunken 
rightful  owner  of  the  furniture,  with  a transitory  gleam  of 
memory;  whether  he  got  safe  home,  or  had  no  home  to  get 
to;  whether  he  died  of  liquor  on  the  way,  or  lived  in  liquor 
ever  afterwards;  he  never  was  heard  of  more.  This  was 
the  story,  received  with  the  furniture  and  held  to  be  as 
substantial,  by  its  second  possessor  in  an  upper  set  of, 
chambers  in  grim  Lyons  Inn.  ' 

It  is  to  be  remarked  of  chambers  in  general,  that  they 
must  have  been  built  for  chambers,  to  have  the  right  kind 
of  loneliness.  You  may  make  a great  dwelling-house  very 
lonely,  by  isolating  suites  of  rooms  and  calling  them  cham- 
bers, but  you  cannot  make  the  true  kind  of  loneliness.  In 
dwelling-houses,  there  have  been  family  festivals;  children 
have  grown  in  them,  girls  have  bloomed  into  women  in 
them,  courtships  and  marriages  have  taken  place  in  them. 
True  chambers  never  were  young,  childish,  maidenly; 
never  had  dolls  in  them,  or  rocking-horses,  or  christenings, 
or  betrothals,  or  little  coffins.  Let  Gray’s  Inn  identify  thoj 
child  who  first  touched  hands  and  hearts  with  Robinson 
Crusoe,  in  any  one  of  its  many  “sets,”  and  that  child’s  lit- 
tle statue,  in  white  marble  with  a golden  inscription,  shall 
be  at  its  service,  at  my  cost  and  charge,  as  a drinking  foun- 
tain for  the  spirit,  to  freshen  its  thirsty  square.  Let  Lin- 
coln’s produce  from  all  its  houses,  a twentieth  of  the  pro- 
cession derivable  from  any  dwelling-house  one-twentieth  of 
its  age,  of  fair  young  brides  who  married  for  love  and  hope, 
not  settlements,  and  all  the  Vice-Chancellors  shall  thence- 
forward be  kept  in  nosegays  for  nothing,  on  application  to 
the  writer  hereof.  It  is  not  denied  that  on  the  terrace  of 
the  Adelphi,  or  in  any  of  the  streets  of  that  subterranean- 
stable-haunted  spot,  or  about  Bedford-row,  or  James-street 
of  that  ilk  (a  grewsome  place),  or  anywhere  among  the 
neighbourhoods  that  have  done  flowering  and  have  run  to 
seed,  you  may  find  Chambers  replete  with  the  accommoda- 
tions of  Solitude,  Closeness,  and  Darkness,  where  you  may 
be  as  low-spirited  as  in  the  genuine  article,  and  might  be 
as  easily  murdered,  with  the  placid  reputation  of  having 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


143 


merely  gone  down  to  the  sea-side.  But,  the  many  waters 

life  did  run  musical  in  those  dry  channels  once; — among 
|he  Inns,  never.  The  only  popular  legend  known  in  rela- 
feon  to  any  one  of  the  dull  family  of  Inns,  is  a dark  Old 
3ailey  whisper  concerning  ClemenUs,  and  importing  how 
he  black  creature  who  holds  the  sun-dial  there,  was  a 
Iiegro  who  slew  his  master  and  built  the  dismal  pile  out  of 
he  contents  of  his  strong  box — for  which  architectural 
)ffence  alone  he  ought  to  have  been  condemned  to  live  in 
t:t.  But,  what  populace  would  waste  fancy  upon  such  a 
"Dlace,  or  on  blew  Inn,  Staple  Inn,  Barnard’s  Inn,  or  any 
)f  the  shabby  crew? 

The  genuine  laundress,  too,  is  an  institution  not  to  be  had 
11  its  entirety  out  of  and  away  from  the  genuine  Cham- 
bers. Again,  it  is  not  denied  that  you  may  be  robbed  else- 
jvhere.  Elsewhere  you  may  have — for  money — dishonesty, 
Irunkenness,  dirt,  laziness,  and  profound  incapacity.  But 
;he  veritable  shining-red-faced  shameless  laundress;  the 
j;rue  Mrs.  Sweeney — in  figure,  colour,  texture,  and  smell, 
vike  the  old  damp  family  umbrella;  the  tip-top  complicated 
ibomination  of  stockings,  spirits,  bonnet,  limpness,  loose- 
less,  and  larceny;  is  only  to  be  drawn  at  the  fountain- 
.lead.  Mrs.  Sweeney  is  beyond  the  reach  of  individual 
Kit.  It  requires  the  united  efforts  of  several  men  to  ensure 
hat  great  result,  and  it  is  only  developed  in  perfection 
inder  an  Honourable  Society  and  in  an  Inn  of  Court. 


1 XV. 

)» 

? NURSE’S  STORIES. 

r 

There  are  not  many  places  that  I find  it  more  agreeable 
'.o  revisit  when  I am  in  an  idle  mood,  than  some  places  to 
Vhich  I have  never  been.  For,  my  acquaintance  with 
hose  spots  is  of  such  long  standing,  and  has  ripened  into 
m intimacy  of  so  affectionate  a nature,  that  I take  a par- . 
icular  interest  in  assuring  myself  that  they  are  unchanged. 

I never  was  in  Robinson  Crusoe’s  Island,  yet  I fre- 
quently return  there.  The  colony  he  established  on  it  soon 
'aded  away,  and  it  is  uninhabited  by  any  descendants  of 


144 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELI.ER. 


the  grave  and  courteous  Spaniards,  or  of  Will  Atkins  and 
the  other  mutineers,  and  has  relapsed  into  its  original  con- 
dition. Not  a twig  of  its  wicker  houses  remains,  its  goats 
have  long  run  wild  again,  its  screaming  parrots  would 
darken  the  sun  with  a cloud  of  many  flaming  colours  if  a 
gun  were  fired  there,  no  face  is  ever  reflected  in  the  waters 
of  the  little  creek  which  Friday  swam  across  when  pursued 
by  his  two  brother  cannibals  with  sharpened  stomachs. 
After  comparing  notes  with  other  travellers  who  have 
similarly  revisited  the  Island  and  conscientiously  inspected 
it,  I have  satisfied  myself  that  it  contains  no  vestige  of  Mr. 
Atkins’s  domesticity  or  theology,  though  his  track  on  the 
memorable  evening  of  his  landing  to  set  his  captain  ashore, 
when  he  was  decoyed  about  and  round  about  until  it  was 
dark,  and  his  boat  was  stove,  and  his  strength  and  spirits 
failed  him,  is  yet  plainly  to  be  traced.  So  is  the  hill-top  on 
which  Robinson  was  struck  dumb  with  joy  when  the  rein- 
stated captain  pointed  to  the  ship,  riding  within  half  a 
mile  of  the  shore,  that  was  to  bear  him  away,  in  the  nine- 
and-twentieth  year  of  his  seclusion  in  that  lonely  place. 
So  is  the  sandy  beach  on  which  the  memorable  footstep  was 
impressed,  and  where  the  savages  hauled  up  their  canoes 
when  they  came  ashore  for  those  dreadful  public  dinners, 
which  led  to  a dancing  worse  than  speech-making.  So  is 
the  cave  where  the  flaring  eyes  of  the  old  goat  made  such  a 
goblin  appearance  in  the  dark.  So  is  the  site  of  the  hut 
where  Robinson  lived  with  the  dog  and  the  parrot  and  the 
cat,  and  where  he  endured  those  first  agonies  of  solitude, 
which — strange  to  say — never  involved  any  ghostly  fancies; 
a circumstance  so  very  remarkable,  that  perhaps  he  left  out 
something  in  writing  his  record?  Round  hundreds  of  such 
objects,  hidden  in  the  dense  tropical  foliage,  the  tropical 
sea  breaks  evermore;  and  over  them  the  tropical  sky,  sav- 
ing in  the  short  rainy  season,  shines  bright  and  cloudless. 

Neither,  was  I ever  belated  among  wolves,  on  the  borders 
of  France  and  Spain ; nor,  did  I ever,  when  night  was  clos- 
ing in  and  the  ground  was  covered  with  snow,  draw  up  my 
little  company  among  some  felled  trees  which  served  as  a 
breastwork,  and  there  fire  a train  of  gunpowder  so  dexter- 
ously that  suddenly  we  had  three  or  four  score  blazing 
wolves  illuminating  the  darkness  around  us.  Neverthe- 
less, I occasionally  go  back  to  that  dismal  region  and  per- 
form the  feat  again;  when  indeed  to  smell  the  singeing  and 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


145 


le  frying  of  the  wolves  afire,  and  to  see  them  setting  one 
lother  alight  as  they  rush  and  tumble,  and  to  behold  them 
)lling  in  the  snow  vainly  attempting  to  put  themselves 
, 'it,  and  to  hear  their  bowlings  taken  up  by  all  the  echoes 
5 well  as  by  all  the  unseen  wolves  within  the  woods, 
akes  me  tremble. 

’ I was  never  in  the  robbers’  cave,  where  Gil  Bias  lived, 
j^dt  I often  go  back  there  and  find  the  trap-door  just  as 
i'^avy  to  raise  as  it  used  to  be,  while  that  wicked  old  dis- 
) bled  Black  lies  everlastingly  cursing  in  bed.  I was  never 
h Don  Quixote’s  study,  where  he  read  his  books  of  chivalry 
I atil  he  rose  and  hacked  at  imaginary  giants  and  t^en 
jjjfreshed  himself  with  great  draughts  of  water,  yet  you 
,,  )uldn’t  move  a book  in  it  without  my  knowledge,  or  with 
: y consent.  I was  never  (thank  Heaven)  in  company  with 
ijie  little  old  woman  who  hobbled  out  of  the  chest  and  told 
lie  merchant  Abudah  to  go  in  search  of  the  Talisman  of 
romanes,  yet  I make  it  my  business  to  know  that  she  is 
I ell  preserved  and  as  intolerable  as  ever.  I was  never  at 
tie  school  where  the  boy  Horatio  Nelson  got  out  of  bed  to 
i -eal  the  pears : not  because  he  wanted  any,  but  because 
: 7ery  other  boy  was  afraid : yet  I have  several  times  been 
Ack  to  this  Academy,  to  see  him  let  down  out  of  window 
(ith  a sheet.  So  with  Damascus,  and  Bagdad,  and  Brob- 
ugnag  (which  has  the  curious  fate  of  being  usually  mis- 
oelt  when  written),  and  Lilliput,  and  Laputa,  and  the 
ile,  and  Abyssinia,  and  the  Ganges,  and  the  North  Pole, 

, id  many  hundreds  of  places — I was  never  at  them,  yet  it 
jl  an  affair  of  my  life  to  keep  them  intact,  and  I am  always 
fling  back  to  them. 

V But,  when  I was  in  Dullborough  one  day,  revisiting  the 
bsociations  of  my  childhood  as  recorded  in  previous  pages 
n these  notes,  my  experience  in  this  wise  was  made  quite 
f iconsiderable  and  of  no  account,  by  the  quantity  of  places 
I id  people — utterly  impossible  places  and  people,  but  none 
' le  less  alarmingly  real — that  I found  I had  been  intro- 
1 need  to  by  my  nurse  before  I was  six  years  old,  and  used 
i.)  be  forced  to  go  back  to  at  night  without  at  all  wanting 
I ) go.  If  we  all  knew  our  own  minds  (in  a more  enlarged 
I mse  than  the  popular  acceptation  of  that  phrase),  T sus- 
i let  we  should  find  our  nurses  responsible  for  most  of 
i.  le  dark  corners  we  are  forced  to  go  back  to,  against  our 
ills. 


10 


146 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


The  first  diabolical  character  who  intruded  himself  or 
my  peaceful  youth  (as  I called  to  mind  that  day  at  Dull- 
borough),  was  a certain  Captain  Murderer.  This  wretcl 
must  have  been  an  offshoot  of  the  Blue  Beard  family,  but  1 
had  no  suspicion  of  the  consanguinity  in  those  times.  Hij 
warning  name  would  seem  to  have  awakened  no  genera' 
prejudice  against  him,  for  he  was  admitted  into  the  bes1 
society  and  possessed  immense  wealth.  Captain  Murder 
er’s  mission  was  matrimony,  and  the  gratification  of  a can 
nibal  appetite  with  tender  brides.  On  his  marriage  morn 
ing,  he  always  caused  both  sides  of  the  way  to  church  tc 
be  planted  with  curious  flowers;  and  when  his  bride  said 
Dear  Captain  Murderer,  I never  saw  flowers  like  these 
before:  what  are  they  called?”  he  answered,  ^^They  are 
called  Garnish  for  house-lamb,”  and  laughed  at  his  fero- 
cious practical  joke  in  a horrid  manner,  disquieting  the 
minds  of  the  noble  bridal  company,  with  a very  sharp  sho\^ 
of  teeth,  then  displayed  for  the  first  time.  He  made  love 
in  a coach  and  six,  and  married  in  a coach  and  twelve,  and 
all  his  horses  were  milk-white  horses  with  one  red  spot  or 
the  back  which  he  caused  to  be  hidden  by  the  harness. 
For,  the  spot  would  come  there,  though  every  horse  was 
milk-white  when  Captain  Murderer  bought  him.  And  th( 
spot  was  young  bride’s  blood.  (To  this  terrific  point  I an 
indebted  for  my  first  personal  experience  of  a shudder  and 
cold  beads  on  the  forehead.)  When  Captain  Murderer  had 
made  an  end  of  feasting  and  revelry,  and  had  dismissed 
the  noble  guests,  and  was  alone  with  his  wife  on  the  daj 
month  after  their  marriage,  it  was  his  whimsical  custoin 
to  produce  a golden  rolling-pin  and  a silver  pie-board. 
Now,  there  was  this  special  feature  in  the  Captain’s  court- 
ships, that  he  always  asked  if  the  young  lady  could  make 
pie-crust;  and  if  she  couldn’t  by  nature  or  education,  she 
was  taught.  Well.  When  the  bride  saw  Captain  Mur- 
derer produce  the  golden  rolling-pin  and  silver  pie-board, 
she  remembered  this,  and  turned  up  her  laced-silk  sleeves 
to  make  a pie.  The  Captain  brought  out  a silver  pie-dish 
of  immense  capacity,  and  the  Captain  brought  out  flour  and 
butter  and  eggs  and  all  things  needful,  except  the  inside 
of  the  pie;  of  materials  for  the  staple  of  the  pie  itself,  the 
Captain  brought  out  none.  Then  said  the  lovely  bride, 
^^Dear  Captain  Murderer,  what  pie  is  this  to  be?  ” He  re- 
plied, A meat  pie.”  Then  said  the  lovely  bride,  ‘‘Deal 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


147 


Captain  Murderer,  I see  no  meat.’’  The  Captain  humor- 
ously retorted,  Look  in  the  glass.”  She  looked  in  the 
glass,  but  still  she  saw  no  meat,  and  then  the  Captain 
roared  with  laughter,  and  suddenly  frowning  and  drawing 
his  sword,  bade  her  roll  out  the  crust.  So  she  rolled  out 
the  crust,  dropping  large  tears  upon  it  all  the  time  because 
he  was  so  cross,  and  when  she  had  lined  the  dish  with  crust 
and  had  cut  the  crust  all  ready  to  fit  the  top,  the  Captain 
called  out,  I see  the  meat  in  the  glass ! ” And  the  bride 
looked  up  at  the  glass,  just  in  time  to  see  the  Captain  cut- 
ting her  head  off;  and  he  chopped  her  in  pieces,  and  pep- 
pered her,  and  salted  her,  and  put  her  in  the  pie,  and  sent 
it  to  the  baker’s,  and  ate  it  all,  and  picked  the  bones. 

Captain  Murderer  went  on  in  this  way,  prospering  ex- 
ceedingly, until  he  came  to  choose  a bride  from  two  twin 
sisters,  and  at  first  didn’t  know  which  to  choose.  For, 
though  one  was  fair  and  the  other  dark,  they  were  both 
equally  beautiful.  But  the  fair  twin  loved  him,  and  the 
dark  twin  hated  him,  so  he  chose  the  fair  one.  The  dark 
twin  would  have  prevented  the  marriage  if  she  could,  but 
she  couldn’t;  however,  on  the  night  before  it,  much  sus- 
pecting Captain  Murderer,  she  stole  out  and  climbed  his 
garden  wall,  and  looked  in  at  his  window  through  a chink 
in  the  shutter,  and  saw  him  having  his  teeth  filed  sharp. 
Next  day  she  listened  all  day,  and  heard  him  make  his 
joke  about  the  house-lamb.  And  that  day  month,  he  had 
the  paste  rolled  out,  and  cut  the  fair  twin’s  head  off,  and 
chopped  her  in  pieces,  and  peppered  her,  and  salted  her, 
and  put  her  in  the  pie,  and  sent  it  to  the  baker’s,  and  ate 
it  all,  and  picked  the  bones. 

Now,  the  dark  twin  had  had  her  suspicions  much  in- 
creased by  the  filing  of  the  Captain’s  teeth,  and  again  by 
the  house-lamb  joke.  Putting  all  things  together  when  he 
gave  out  that  her  sister  was  dead,  she  divined  the  truth, 
and  determined  to  be  revenged.  So,  she  went  up  to  Cap- 
tain Murderer’s  house,  and  knocked  at  the  knocker  and 
pulled  at  the  bell,  and  when  the  Captain  came  to  the  door, 
said : Dear  Captain  Murderer,  marry  me  next,  for  I al- 

ways loved  you  and  was  jealous  of  my  sister.”  The  Cap- 
tain took  it  as  a compliment,  and  made  a polite  answei*, 
and  the  marriage  was  quickly  arranged.  On  the  night  be- 
fore it,  the  bride  again  climbed  to  his  window,  and  again 
saw  him  having  his  teeth  filed  sharp.  At  this  sight  sho 


148  the  uncommercial  traveller. 

laughed  such  a terrible  laugh  at  the  chink  in  the  shutter, 
that  the  Captain’s  blood  curdled,  and  he  said:  hope 

nothing  has  disagreed  with  me ! ” At  that,  she  laughed 
again,  a still  more  terrible  laugh,  and  the  shutter  was 
opened  and  search  made,  but  she  was  nimbly  gone,  and 
there  was  no  one.  Next  day  they  went  to  church  in  a 
coach  and  twelve,  and  were  married.  And  that  day 
month,  she  rolled  the  pie-crust  out,  and  Captain  Murderer 
cut  her  head  off,  and  chopped  her  in  pieces,  and  peppered 
her,  and  salted  her,  and  put  her  in  the  pie,  and  sent  it  to 
the  baker’s,  and  ate  it  all,  and  picked  the  bones. 

But  before  she  began  to  roll  out  the  paste  she  had  taken 
a deadly  poison  of  a most  awful  character,  distilled  from 
toads’  eyes  and  spiders’  knees;  and  Captain  Murderer  had 
hardly  picked  her  last  bone,  when  he  began  to  swell,  and 
to  turn  blue,  and  to  be  all  over  spots,  and  to  scream.  And 
he  went  on  swelling  and  turning  bluer,  and  being  more  all 
over  spots  and  screaming,  until  he  reached  from  floor  to  ceil- 
ing and  from  wall  to  wall;  and  then,  at  one  o’clock  in  the 
morning,  he  blew  up  with  a loud  explosion.  At  the  sound 
of  it,  all  the  milk-white  horses  in  the  stables  broke  their 
halters  and  went  mad,  and  then  they  galloped  over  every- 
body in  Captain  Murderer’s  house  (beginning  with  the 
family  blacksmith  who  had  filed  his  teeth)  until  the  whole 
were  dead,  and  then  they  galloped  away. 

Hundreds  of  times  did  I hear  this  legend  of  Captain  Mur- 
derer, in  my  early  youth,  and  added  hundreds  of  times  was 
there  a mental  compulsion  upon  me  in  bed,  to  peep  in  at 
his  window  as  the  dark  twin  peeped,  and  to  revisit  his 
horrible  house,  and  look  at  him  in  his  blue  and  spotty  and 
screaming  stage,  as  he  reached  from  floor  to  ceiling  and 
from  wall  to  wall.  The  young  woman  who  brought  me  ac- 
quainted with  Captain  Murderer  had  a fiendish  enjoyment 
of  my  terrors,  and  used  to  begin,  I remember — as  a sort  of 
introductory  overture — by  clawing  the  air  with  both  hands, 
and  uttering  a long  low  hollow  groan.  So  acutely  did  I 
suffer  from  this  ceremony  in  combination  with  this  infernal 
Captain,  that  I sometimes  used  to  plead  I thought  I was 
hardly  strong  enough  and  old  enough  to  hear  the  story 
again  just  yet.  But,  she  never  spared  me  one  word  of  it, 
and  indeed  commended  the  awful  chalice  to  my  lips  as  the 
only  preservative  known  to  science  against  ‘‘The  Black 
Cat” — a weird  and  glaring-eyed  supernatural  Tom,  who 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


149 


was  reputed  to  prowl  about  the  world  by  night,  sucking  the 
breath  of  infancy,  and  who  was  endowed  with  a special 
thirst  (as  I was  given  to  understand)  for  mine. 

This  female  bard — may  she  have  been  repaid  my  debt  of 
obligation  to  her  in  the  matter  of  nightmares  and  perspira- 
tion ! — reappears  in  my  memory  as  the  daughter  of  a ship- 
wright. Her  name  was  Mercy,  though  she  had  none  on 
me.  There  was  something  of  a shipbuilding  flavour  in  the 
following  story.  As  it  always  recurs  to  me  in  a vague  as- 
sociation with  calomel  pills,  I believe  it  to  have  been  re- 
served for  dull  nights  when  I was  low  with  medicine. 

There  was  once  a shipwright,  and  he  wrought  in  a Gov- 
ernment Yard,  and  his  name  was  Chips.  And  his  father’s 
name  before  him  was  Chips,  and  his  fatlier’s  name  before 
him  was  Chips,  and  they  were  all  Chipses.  And  Chips  the 
father  had  sold  himself  to  the  Devil  for  an  iron  pot  and  a 
bushel  of  tenpenny  nails  and  half  a ton  of  copper  and  a rat 
that  could  speak;  and  Chips  the  grandfather  had  sold  him- 
self to  the  Devil  for  an  iron  pot  and  a bushel  of  tenpenny 
nails  and  half  a ton  of  copper  and  a rat  that  could  speak; 
and  Chips  the  great-grandfather  had  disposed  of  himself 
in  the  same  direction  on  the  same  terms;  and  the  bargain 
had  run  in  the  family  for  a long  long  time.  So,  one  day, 
when  young  Chips  was  at  work  in  tlie  Dock  Slip  all  alone, 
down  in  the  dark  hold  of  an  old  Seventy-four  that  was 
haled  up  for  repairs,  the  Devil  presented  himself,  and  re- 
marked : 

“ A Lemon  has  pips, 

And  a Yard  has  ships, 

And  /’ll  have  Chips!  ” 

(I  don’t  know  why,  but  this  fact  of  the  Devil’s  expressing 
himself  in  rhyme  was  peculiarly  trying  to  me.)  Chips 
looked  up  when  he  heard  the  words,  and  there  he  saw  the 
Devil  with  saucer  eyes  that  squinted  on  a terrible  great 
scale,  and  that  struck  out  sparks  of  blue  Are  continually. 
And  whenever  he  winked  his  eyes,  showers  of  blue  sparks 
came  out,  and  his  eyelashes  made  a clattering  like  flints 
and  steels  striking  lights.  And  hanging  over  one  of  his 
arms  by  the  handle  was  an  iron  pot,  and  under  that  arm 
was  a bushel  of  tenpenny  nails,  and  under  his  other  arm 
was  half  a ton  of  copper,  and  sitting  on  one  of  his  shoul- 
ders was  a rat  that  could  speak.  So,  the  Devil  said 
again ; 


150 


THE  UNCOMMEPiCTAL  TRAVELLER. 


“A  Lemon  has  pips, 

And  a Yard  has  ships, 

And  /’ll  have  Chips!  ” 

(The  invariable  effect  of  this  alarming  tautology  on  the 
part  of  the  Evil  Spirit  was  to  deprive  me  of  my  senses  for 
some  moments.)  So,  Chips  answered  never  a word,  but 
went  on  with  his  work.  What  are  you  doing.  Chips?  ” 
said  the  rat  that  could  speak.  am  putting  in  new 
planks  where  you  and  your  gang  have  eaten  old  away,’’ 
said  Chips.  But  we’ll  eat  them  too,”  said  the  rat  that 
could  speak;  and  we’ll  let  in  the  water  and  drown  the 
crew,  and  we’ll  eat  them  too.”  Chips,  being  only  a ship- 
wright, and  not  a Man-of-war’s  man,  said,  You  are  wel- 
come to  it.”  But  he  couldn’t  keep  his  eyes  off  the  half  a 
ton  of  copper  or  the  bushel  of  tenpenny  nails;  for  nails  and 
copper  are  a shipwright’s  sweethearts,  and  shipwrights  will 
run  away  with  them  whenever  they  can.  So,  the  Devil 
said,  see  what  you  are  looking  at.  Chips.  You  had  bet- 
ter strike  the  bargain.  You  know  the  terms.  Your  father, 
before  you  was  well  acquainted  with  them,  and  so  were 
your  grandfather  and  great-grandfather  before  him.”  Says 
Chips,  like  the  copper,  and  I like  the  nails,  and  I don’t 
mind  the  pot,  but  I don’t  like  the  rat.”  Says  the  Devil, 
fiercely,  You  can’t  have  the  metal  without  him — and  he^s 
a curiosity.  I’m  going.”  Chips,  afraid  of  losing  the  half 
a ton  of  copper  and  the  bushel  of  nails,  then  said,  ^‘Give 
us  hold ! ” So,  he  got  the  copper  and  the  nails  and  the  pot 
and  the  rat  that  could  speak,  and  the  Devil  vanished. 
Chips  sold  the  copper,  and  he  sold  the  nails,  and  he  would 
have  sold  the  pot;  but  whenever  he  offered  it  for  sale,  tlie 
rat  was  in  it,  and  the  dealers  dropped  it,  and  would  have 
nothing  to  say  to  the  bargain.  So,  Chips  resolved  to  kill 
the  rat,  and,  being  at  work  in  the  Yard  one  day  with  a 
great  kettle  of  hot  pitch  on  one  side  of  him  and  the  iron 
pot  with  the  rat  in  it  on  the  other,  he  turned  the  scalding 
pitch  into  the  pot,  and  filled  it  full.  Then,  he  kept  his 
eye  upon  it  till  it  cooled  and  hardened,  and  then  he  let  it 
stand  for  twenty  days,  and  then  he  heated  the  pitch  again 
and  turned  it  back  into  the  kettle,  and  then  he  sank  the 
pot  in  water  for  twenty  days  moi*e,  and  then  he  got  the 
smelters  to  put  it  in  the  furnace  for  twenty  days  more,  and 
then  they  gave  it  him  out,  red  hot,  and  looking  like  red- 
hot  glass  instead  of  iron — yet  there  was  the  rat  in  it,  just 


THE  UNCO^MMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


151 


the  same  as  ever ! And  the  moment  it  caught  his  eye,  it 
said  with  a jeer : 

“ A Lemon  has  pips, 

And  a Yard  has  ships, 

And  i’ll  have  Chips ! ” 

(For  this  Refrain  I had  waited  since  its  last  appearance, 
with  inexpressible  horror,  which  now  culminated.)  Chips 
now  felt  certain  in  his  own  mind  that  the  rat  would  stick 
to  him;  the  rat,  answering  his  thought,  said,  will — like 

pitch ! 

Now,  as  the  rat  leaped  out  of  the  pot  when  it  had 
spoken,  and  made  off.  Chips  began  to  hope  that  it  wouldn’t 
keep  its  word.  But,  a terrible  thing  happened  next  day. 
For,  when  dinner-time  came,  and  the  Dock-bell  rang  to 
strike  work,  he  put  his  rule  into  the  long  pocket  at  the  side 
of  his  trousers,  and  there  he  found  a rat— not  that  rat,  but 
another  rat.  And  in  his  hat,  he  found  another;  and  in  his 
pocket-handkerchief,  another;  and  in  the  sleeves  of  his 
coat,  when  he  pulled  it  on  to  go  to  dinner,  two  more.  And 
from  that  time  he  found  himself  so  frightfully  intimate 
with  all  the  rats  in  the  Yard,  that  they  climbed  up  his  legs 
when  he  was  at  work,  and  sat  on  his  tools  while  he  used 
them.  And  they  could  all  speak  to  one  another,  and  he 
understood  what  they  said.  And  they  got  into  his  lodging, 
and  into  his  bed,  and  into  his  teapot,  and  into  his  beer, 
and  into  his  boots.  And  he  was  going  to  be  married  to  a 
corn-chandler’s  daughter;  and  when  he  gave  her  a work- 
box  he  had  himself  made  for  her,  a rat  jumped  out  of  it; 
and  when  he  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  a rat  clung  about 
her;  so  the  marriage  was  broken  off,  though  the  banns 
were  already  twice  put  up — which  the  parish  clerk  well  re- 
members, for,  as  he  handed  the  book  to  the  clergyman  for 
the  second  time  of  asking,  a large  fat  rat  ran  over  the  leaf. 
(By  this  time  a special  cascade  of  rats  was  rolling  down 
my  back,  and  the  whole  of  my  small  listening  person  was 
overrun  with  them.  At  intervals  ever  since,  I have  been 
morbidly  afraid  of  my  own  pocket,  lest  my  exploring  hand 
should  find  a specimen  or  two  of  those  vermin  in  it.) 

You  may  believe  that  all  this  was  very  terrible  to  Chips; 
but  even  all  this  was  not  the  worst.  He  knew  besides, 
what  the  rats  were  doing,  wherever  they  were.  So,  some- 
times he  would  cry  aloud,  when,  he  was  at  his  club  at  night. 
Oh ! Keep  the  rats  out  of  the  convicts’  burying  ground ! 


152 


r\m  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Don’t  let  tlieiii  do  that!  ” Or,  There’s  one  of  them  at  the 
cheese  down-stairs!”  Or,  ‘^There’s  two  of  them  smelling 
at  the  baby  in  the  garret ! ” Or,  other  things  of  that  sort. 
At  last,  he  was  voted  mad,  and  lost  his  work  in  the  Yard, 
and  could  get  no  other  work.  But,  King  George  wanted 
men,  so  before  very  long  he  got  pressed  for  a sailor.  And 
so  he  was  taken  off  in  a boat  one  evening  to  his  ship,  lying 
at  Spithead,  ready  to  sail.  And  so  the  first  thing  he  made 
out  in  her  as  he  got  near  her,  was  the  figure-head  of  the  old 
Seventy-four,  where  he  had  seen  the  Devil.  She  was  called 
the  Argonaut,  and  they  rowed  right  under  the  bowsprit 
where  the  figure-head  of  the  Argonaut,  with  a sheepskin  in 
his  hand  and  a blue  gown  on,  was  looking  out  to  sea;  and 
sitting  staring  on  his  forehead  was  the  rat  who  could  speak, 
and  his  exact  words  were  these : Chips  ahoy ! Old  boy ! 

We’ve  pretty  well  eat  them  too,  and  we’ll  drown  the  crew, 
and  will  eat  them  too!”  (Here  I always  became  exceed- 
ingly faint,  and  would  have  asked  for  water,  but  that  I was 
speechless.) 

The  ship  was  bound  for  the  Indies;  and  if  you  don’t 
know  where  that  is,  you  ought  to  it,  and  angels  will  never 
love  you.  (Here  I felt  myself  an  outcast  from  a future 
state.)  The  ship  set  sail  that  very  night,  and  she  sailed, 
and  sailed,  and  sailed.  Chips’s  feelings  were  dreadful. 
Nothing  ever  equalled  his  terrors.  No  wonder.  At  last, 
one  day  he  asked  leave  to  speak  to  the  Admiral.  The 
Admiral  giv’  leave.  Chips  went  down  on  his  knees  in  the 
Great  State  Cabin.  Your  Honour,  unless  your  Honour, 
without  a moment’s  loss  of  time  makes  sail  for  the  nearest 
shore,  this  is  a doomed  ship,  and  her  name  is  the  Coffin ! ” 
Young  man,  your  words  are  a madman’s  words.”  Your 
Honour,  no;  they  are  nibbling  us  away.”  ^^They?” 
Your  honour,  them  dreadful  rats.  Dust  and  hollowness 
where  solid  oak  ought  to  be ! Bats  nibbling  a grave  for 
every  man  on  board ! Oh ! Does  your  Honour  love  your 
Lady  and  your  pretty  children?  ” Yes,  my  man,  to  be 
sure.”  “Then,  for  God’s  sake,  make  for  the  nearest  shore, 
for  at  this  present  moment  the  rats  are  all  stopping  in  their 
work,  and  are  all  looking  straight  towards  you  with  bare 
teeth,  and  are  all  saying  to  one  another  that  you  shall 
never,  never,  never,  never,  see  your  Lady  and  your  cliildren 
more.”  “My  poor  fellow,. you  are  a case  for  the  doctor. 
Sentry,  take  care  of  this  man ! ” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


153 


So,  he  was  bled  and  he  was  blistered,  and  he  was  this 
and  that,  for  six  whole  days  and  nights.  So,  then  he 
again  asked  leave  to  speak  to  the  Admiral.  The  Admiral 
giv’  leave.  He  went  down  on  his  knees  in  the  Great  State 
Cabin.  ^^Now,  Admiral,  you  must  die!  You  took  no 
warning;  you  must  die  1 The  rats  are  never  wrong  in  their 
calculations,  and  they  make  out  that  they’ll  be  through,  at 
twelve  to-night.  So,  you  must  die! — With  me  and  all  the 
rest!”  And  so  at  twelve  o’clock  there  was  a great  leak 
reported  in  the  ship,  and  a torrent  of  water  rushed  in  and 
nothing  could  stop  it,  and  they  all  went  down,  every  living 
soul.  And  what  the  rats — being  water-rats — left  of  Chips, 
at  last  floated  to  shore,  and  sitting  on  him  was  an  immense 
overgrown  rat,  laughing,  that  dived  when  the  corpse  touched 
the  beach  and  never  came  up.  And  there  was  a deal  of 
seaweed  on  the  remains.  And  if  you  get  thirteen  bits  of 
seaweed,  and  dry  them  and  burn  them  in  the  fire,  they 
will  go  off  like  in  these  thirteen  words  as  plain  as  plain 
can  be : 

“ A Lemon  has  pips, 

And  a Yard  has  ships, 

And  Tve  got  Chips!  ” 

The  same  female  bard — descended,  possibly,  from  those 
terrible  old  Scalds  who  seem  to  have  existed  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  addling  the  brains  of  mankind  when  they 
begin  to  investigate  languages — made  a standing  pretence 
which  greatly  assisted  in  forcing  me  back  to  a number  of 
hideous  places  that  1 would  by  all  means  have  avoided. 
This  pretence  was,  that  all  her  ghost  stories  had  occurred 
to  her  own  relations.  Politeness  towards  a meritorious 
family,  therefore,  forbade  my  doubting  them,  and  they  ac- 
quired an  air  of  authentication  that  impaired  my  digestive 
powers  for  life.  There  was  a narrative  concerning  an  un- 
earthly animal  foreboding  death,  which  appeared  in  the 
open  street  to  a parlour-maid  who  went  to  fetch  the  beer  ” 
for  supper : first  (as  I now  recall  it)  assuming  the  likeness 
of  a black  dog,  and  gradually  rising  on  its  hind-legs  and 
swelling  into  the  semblance  of  some  quadruped  greatly  sur- 
passing a hippopotamus  : which  apparitiou — not  because^I 
deemed  it  in  the  least  improbable,  but  because  I felt  it  to 
be  really  too  large  to  bear — I feebly  endeavoured  to  explain 
away.  But,  on  Mercy’s  retorting  with  wounded  dignity 
that  the  parlour-maid  was  her  own  sister-in-law,  I per- 


154 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


ceived  there  was  no  hope,  and  resigned  myself  to  this  zo- 
ological phenomenon  as  one  of  my  many  pursuers.  There 
was  another  narrative  describing  the  apparition  of  a young 
woman  who  came  out  of  a glass-case  and  haunted  another 
young  woman  until  the  other  young  woman  questioned  it  and 
elicited  that  its  bones  (Lord!  To  think  of  its  being  so  par- 
ticular about  its  bones !)  were  buried  under  the  glass-case, 
whereas  she  required  them  to  be  interred,  with  every  Un- 
dertaking solemnity  up  to  twenty-four  pound  ten,  in  another 
particular  place.  This  narrative  I considered  I had  a per- 
sonal interest  in  disproving,  because  we  had  glass-cases  at 
home,  and  how,  otherwise,  was  I to  be  guaranteed  from 
the  intrusion  of  young  women  requiring  me  to  bury  them 
up  to  twenty-four  pound  ten,  when  I had  only  twopence  a 
week?  But  my  remorseless  nurse  cut  the  ground  from 
under  my  tender  feet,  by  informing  me  that  She  was  the 
other  young  woman;  and  I couldn’t  say  don’t  believe 
you;  ” it  was  not  possible. 

Such  are  a few  of  the  uncommercial  journeys  that  I was 
forced  to  make,  against  my  will,  when  I was  very  young 
and  unreasoning.  And  really,  as  to  the  latter  part  of 
them,  it  is  not  so  very  long  ago — now  I come  to  think  of  it 
— that  I was  asked  to  undertake  them  once  again,  with  a 
steady  countenance. 


XVI. 

ARCADIAN  LONDON. 

Being  in  a humour  for  complete  solitude  and  uninter- 
rupted meditation  this  autumn,  I have  taken  a lodging  for 
six  weeks  in  the  most  unfrequented  part  of  England — in  a 
word,  in  London. 

The  retreat  into  which  I have  withdrawn  myself,  is  Bond- 
street.  From  this  lonely  spot  I make  pilgrimages  into  the 
surrounding  wilderness,  and  traverse  extensive  tracts  of 
the  Great  Desert.  The  first  solemn  feeling  of  isolation 
overcome,  the  first  oppressive  consciousness  of  profound  re- 
tirement conquered,  I enjoy  that  sense  of  freedom,  and  feel 
reviving  within  me  that  latent  wildness  of  the  original 
savage,  which  has  been  (upon  the  whole  somewhat  fre- 
quently) noticed  by  Travellers. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


155 


My  lodgings  are  at  a hatter’s — my  own  hatter’s.  After 
exhibiting  no  articles  in  his  window  for  some  weeks,  but 
sea-side  wide-awakes,  shooting-caps,  and  a choice  of  rough 
waterproof  head-gear  for  the  moors  and  mountains,  he  has 
put  upon  the  heads  of  his  family  as  much  of  this  stock 
as  they  could  carry,  and  has  taken  them  off  to  the  Isle 
of  Thanet.  His  young  man  alone  remains — and  remains 
alone — in  the  shop.  The  young  man  has  let  out  the  fire  at 
which  the  irons  are  heated,  and,  saving  his  strong  sense  of 
duty,  I see  no  reason  why  he  should  take  the  shutters 
down. 

Happily  for  himself  and  for  his  country,  the  young  man 
is  a Volunteer;  most  happily  for  himself,  or  I think  he 
would  become  the  prey  of  a settled  melancholy.  For,  to 
live  surrounded  by  human  hats,  and  alienated  from  human 
heads  to  fit  them  on,  is  surely  a great  endurance.  But,  the 
young  man,  sustained  by  practising  his  exercise,  and  by 
constantly  furbishing  up  his  regulation  plume  (it  is  unnec- 
essary to  observe  that,  as  a hatter,  he  is  in  a cock’s-feather 
corps),  is  resigned,  and  uncomplaining.  On  a Saturday, 
when  he  closes  early  and  gets  his  Knickerbockers  on,  he  is 
even  cheerful.  I am  gratefully  particular  in  this  reference 
to  him,  because  he  is  my  companion  through  many  peace- 
ful hours.  My  hatter  has  a desk  up  certain  steps  behind 
his  counter,  enclosed  like  the  clerk’s  desk  at  Church.  I 
shut  myself  into  this  place  of  seclusion,  after  breakfast, 
and  meditate.  At  such  times,  I observe  the  young  man 
loading  an  imaginary  rifle  with  the  greatest  precision,  and 
maintaining  a most  galling  and  destructive  fire  upon  the 
national  enemy.  I thank  him  publicly  for  his  companion- 
ship and  his  patriotism. 

The  simple  character  of  my  life,  and  the  calm  nature  of 
the  scenes  by  which  I am  surrounded,  occasion  me  to  rise 
early.  I go  forth  in  my  slippers,  and  promenade  the  pave- 
ment. It  is  pastoral  to  feel  the  freshness  of  the  air  in  the 
uninhabited  town,  and  to  appreciate  the  shepherdess  char- 
acter of  the  few  milkwomen  who  purvey  so  little  milk  that  it 
would  be  worth  nobody’s  while  to  adulterate  it,  if  anybody 
were  left  to  undertake  the  task.  On  the  crowded  sea- 
shore, the  great  demand  for  milk,  combined  with  the  strong 
local  temptation  of  chalk,  would  betray  itself  in  the  lowered 
quality  of  the  article.  In  Arcadian  London  I derive  it 
from  the  cow. 


156 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


The  Arcadian  simplicity  of  the  metropolis  altogether, 
and  the  primitive  ways  into  which  it  has  fallen  in  this  au- 
tumnal Golden  Age,  make  it  entirely  new  to  me.  Within 
a few  hundred  yards  of  my  retreat,  is  the  house  of  a friend 
who  maintains  a most  sumptuous  butler.  I never,  until 
yesterday,  saw  that  butler  out  of  superfine  black  broad- 
cloth. Until  yesterday,  I never  saw  him  off  duty,  never 
saw  him  (he  is  the  best  of  butlers)  with  the  appearance  of 
having  any  mind  for  anything  but  the  glory  of  his  master 
and  his  master’s  friends.  Yesterday  morning,  walking  in 
my  slippers  near  the  house  of  which  he  is  the  prop  and  or- 
nament— a house  now  a waste  of  shutters — I encountered 
that  butler,  also  in  his  slippers,  and  in  a shooting  suit  of 
one  colour,  and  in  a low-crowned  straw-hat,  smoking  an 
early  cigar.  He  felt  that  we  had  formerly  met  in  another 
state  of  existence,  and  that  we  were  translated  into  a new 
sphere.  Wisely  and  well,  he  passed  me  without  recogni- 
tion. Under  his  arm  he  carried  the  morning  paper,  and 
shortly  afterwards  I saw  him  sitting  on  a rail  in  the  pleas- 
ant open  landscape  of  Regent-street,  perusing  it  at  his  ease 
under  the  ripening  sun. 

My  landlord  having  taken  his  whole  establishment  to  be 
salted  down,  l am  waited  on  by  an  elderly  woman  labour- 
ing under  a chronic  sniff,  who,  at  the  shadowy  hour  of  half- 
past nine  o’clock  of  every  evening,  gives  admittance  at  the 
street  door  to  a meagre  and  mouldy  old  man  whom  I have 
never  yet  seen  detached  from  a flat  pint  of  beer  in  a pew- 
ter pot.  The  meagre  and  mouldy  old  man  is  her  husband, 
and  the  pair  have  a dejected  consciousness  that  they  are  not 
justified  in  appearing  on  the  surface  of  the  earth.  They 
come  out  of  some  hole  when  London  empties  itself,  and  go 
in  again  when  it  fills.  I saw  them  arrive  on  the  evening 
when  I myself  took  possession,  and  they  arrived  with  the 
flat  pint  of  beer,  and  their  bed  in  a bundle.  The  old  man 
is  a weak  old  man,  and  appeared  to  me  to  get  the  bed  down 
the  kitchen  stairs  by  tumbling  down  with  and  upon  it. 
They  make  their  bed  in  the  lowest  and  remotest  corner  of 
the  basement,  and  they  smell  of  bed,  and  have  no  posses- 
sion but  bed : unless  it  be  (which  I rather  infer  from  an 
under-current  of  flavour  in  them)  cheese.  I know  their 
name,  through  the  chance  of  having  called  the  wife’s  atten- 
tion, at  half-past  nine  on  the  second  evening  of  our  ac- 
quaintance, to  the  circumstance  of  there  being  some  one  at 


THE  UNCOMMEUCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


157 


the  house  door;  when  she  apologetically  explained,  ^^It’s 
only  Mr.  Klem.^’  What  becomes  of  Mr.  Klem  all  day,  or 
when  he  goes  out,  or  why,  is  a mystery  I cannot  penetrate; 
but  at  half-past  nine  he  never  fails  to  turn  up  on  the  door- 
step with  the  flat  pint  of  beer.  And  the  pint  of  beer,  flat 
as  it  is,  is  so  much  more  important  than  himself,  that  it 
always  seems  to  my  fancy  as  if  it  had  found  him  drivelling 
in  the  street  and  had  humanely  brought  him  home.  In 
making  his  way  below,  Mr.  Klem  never  goes  down  the 
middle  of  the  passage,  like  another  Christian,  but  shuffles 
against  the  wall  as  if  entreating  me  to  take  notice  that  he 
is  occupying  as  little  space  as  possible  in  the  house;  and 
whenever  I come  upon  him  face  to  face,  he  backs  from  me 
in  fascinated  confusion.  The  most  extraordinary  circum- 
stance I have  traced  in  connection  with  this  aged  couple, 
is,  that  there  is  a Miss  Klem,  their  daughter,  apparently 
ten  years  older  then  either  of  them,  who  has  also  a bed  and 
smells  of  it,  and  carries  it  about  the  earth  at  dusk  and 
hides  it  in  deserted  houses.  I came  into  this  piece  of 
knowledge  through  Mrs.  Klem’s  beseeching  me  to  sanction 
the  sheltering  of  Miss  Klem  under  that  roof  for  a single 
night,  ‘‘between  her  takin’  care  of  the  upper  part  in  Pall 
Mall  which  the  family  of  his  back,  and  a ^ouse  in  Ser- 
jameses-street,  which  the  family  of  leaves  towng  ter-mor- 
rer.^’  I gave  my  gracious  consent  (having  nothing  that  I 
know  of  to  do  with  it),  and  in  the  shadowy  hours  Miss 
Klem  became  perceptible  on  the  door-step,  wrestling  with 
a bed  in  a bundle.  Where  she  made  it  up  for  the  night  I 
cannot  positively  state,  but,  I think,  in  a sink.  I know 
that  with  the  instinct  of  a reptile  or  an  insect,  she  stowed 
it  and  herself  away  in  deep  obscurity.  In  the  Klein  family, 
I have  noticed  another  remarkable  gift  of  nature,  and  that 
is  a power  they  possess  of  converting  everything  into  flue. 
Such  broken  victuals  as  they  take  by  stealth,  appear  (what- 
ever the  nature  of  the  viands)  invariably  to  generate  flue; 
and  even  the  nightly  pint  of  beer,  instead  of  assimilating 
naturally,  strikes  me  as  breaking  out  in  that  form,  equally 
on  the  shabby  gown  of  Mrs,  Klem,  and  the  threadbare  coat 
of  her  husband. 

Mrs.  Klem  has  no  idea  of  my  name — as  to  Mr.  Klem  he 
has  no  idea  of  anything — and  only  knows  me  as  her  good 
gentleman.  Thus,  if  doubtful  whether  I am  in  my  room 
or  no,  Mrs.  Klem  taps  at  the  door  and  says,  “ Is  my  good 


158 


TITE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRA\'ELLER. 


g6iitl6man  hei’G?  1^15  if  <i  inGssGnger  d.Gsiring  to  sgg  me 
were  consistent  with  my  solitude,  she  would  show  him  in 
with  ''Here  is  my  good  gentleman.’'  I find  this  to  be  a 
generic  custom.  For,  I meant  to  have  observed  before  now, 
that  in  its  Arcadian  time  all  my  part  of  London  is  indis- 
tinctly pervaded  by  the  Klein  species.  They  creep  about 
with  beds,  and  go  to  bed  in  miles  of  deserted  houses.  They 
hold  no  companionship  except  that  sometimes,  after  dark, 
two  of  them  will  emerge  from  opposite  houses,  and  meet  in 
the  middle  of  the  road  as  on  neutral  ground,  or  will  peep 
from  adjoining  houses  over  an  interposing  barrier  of  area 
railings,  and  compare  a few  reserved  mistrustful  notes  re- 
specting their  good  ladies  or  good  gentlemen.  This  I have 
discovered  in  the  course  of  various  solitary  rambles  I have 
taken  Northward  from  my  retirement,  along  the  awful  per- 
spectives of  ^ Wimpole-street,  Harley-street,  and  similar 
frowning  regions.  Their  effect  would  be  scarcely  distin- 
guishable from  that  of  the  primeval  forests,  but  for  the 
Klein  stragglers;  these  may  be  dimly  observed,  when  the 
heavy  shadows  fall,  flitting  to  and  fro,  putting  up  the  door- 
chain,  taking  in  the  pint  of  beer,  lowering  like  phantoms 
at  the  dark  parlour  windows,  or  secretly  consorting  under- 
ground with  the  dust-bin  and  the  water-cistern. 

In  the  Burlington  Arcade,  I observe,  with  peculiar  pleas- 
ure, a primitive  state  of  manners  to  have  superseded  the 
baneful  influences  of  ultra  civilisation.  Nothing  can  sur- 
pass the  innocence  of  the  ladies’  shoe-shops,  the  artificial- 
flower  repositories,  and  the  head-dress  depots.  They  are 
in  strange  hands  at  this  time  of  year — hands  of  unaccus- 
tomed persons,  who  are  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the 
prices  of  the  goods,  and  contemplate  them  with  unsophisti- 
cated delight  and  wonder.  The  children  of  these  virtuous 
people  exchange  familiarities  in  the  Arcade,  and  temper 
the  asperity  of  the  two  tall  beadles.  Their  youthful  prattle 
blends  in  an  unwonted  manner  with  the  harmonious  shade 
of  the  scene,  and  the  general  effect  is,  as  of  the  voices  of 
birds  in  a grove.  In  this  happy  restoration  of  the  golden 
time,  it  has  been  my  privilege  even  to  see  the  bigger  bea- 
dle’s wife.  ^ She  brought  him  his  dinner  in  a basin,  and  he 
ate  it  in  his  arm-chair,  and  afterwards  fell  asleep  like  a 
satiated  child.  At  Mr.  Truefitt’s,  the  excellent  hairdress- 
er’s, they  are  learning  French  to  beguile  the  time;  and 
even  the  few  solitaries  left  on  guard  at  Mr.  Atkinson’s, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


159 


the  perfumer’s  round  the  corner  (generally  the  most  inex- 
orable gentleman  in  London,  and  the  most  scornful  of  three- 
and-sixpence),  condescend  a little,  as  they  drowsily  bide 
or  recall  their  turn  for  chasing  the  ebbing  Neptune  on  the 
ribbed  sea-sand.  From  Messrs.  Hunt  and  RoskelPs,  the 
jewellers’,  all  things  are  absent  but  the  precious  stones, 
and  the  gold  and  silver,  and  the  soldierly  pensioner  at  the 
door  with  his  decorated  breast.  I might  stand  night  and 
day  for  a month  to  come,  in  Saville-row,  with  my  tongue 
out,  yet  not  find  a doctor  to  look  at  it  for  love  or  money. 
The  dentists’  instruments  are  rusting  in  their  drawers,  and 
their  horrible  cool  parlours,  where  people  pretend  to  read 
the  Every-Day  Book  and  not  to  be  afraid,  are  doing  penance 
for  their  grimness  in  white  sheets.  The  light-weight  of 
shrewd  appearance,  with  one  eye  always  shut  up,  as  if  lie 
were  eating  a sharp  gooseberry  in  all  seasons,  who  usually 
stands  at  the  gateway  of  the  livery-stables  on  very  little 
legs  under  a very  large  waistcoat,  has  gone  to  Doncaster. 
Of  such  undesigning  aspect  is  his  guileless  yard  now,  with 
its  gravel  and  scarlet  beans,  and  the  yellow  Brake  housed 
under  a glass  roof  in  a corner,  that  I almost  believe  I could 
not  be  taken  in  there,  if  I tried.  In  the  places  of  business 
of  the  great  tailors,  the  cheval-glasses  are  dim  and  dusty 
for  lack  of  being  looked  into.  Ranges  of  brown  paper 
coat  and  waistcoat  bodies  look  as  funereal  as  if  they  were 
the  hatchments  of  the  customers  with  whose  names  they 
are  inscribed;  the  measuring  tapes  hang  idle  on  the  wall; 
the  order-taker,  left  on  the  hopeless  chance  of  some  one 
looking  in,  yawns  in  the  last  extremity  over  the  book  of 
patterns,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  read  that  entertaining  li- 
brary. The  hotels  in  Brook-street  have  no  one  in  them, 
and  the  staffs  of  servants  stare  disconsolately  for  next  sea- 
son out  of  all  the  windows.  The  very  man  who  goes  about 
like  an  erect  Turtle,  between  two  boards  recommendatory 
of  the  Sixteen  Shilling  Trousers,  is  aware  of  himself  as  a 
hollow  mockery,  and  eats  filberts  while  he  leans  his  hinder 
shell  against  a wall. 

Among  these  tranquillising  objects,  it  is  my  delight  to 
walk  and  meditate.  Soothed  by  the  repose  around  me, 
I wander  insensibly  to  considerable  distances,  and  guide 
myself  back  by  the  stars.  Thus,  I enjoy  the  contrast  of  a 
few  still  partially  inhabited  and  busy  spots  where  all  the 
lights  are  not  fled,  where  all  the  garlands  are  not  dead, 


100 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


whence  all  but  I have  not  departed.  Then,  does  it  appear 
to  me  that  in  tliis  age  three  things  are  clamorously  required 
of  Man  ill  the  miscellaneous  thoroughfares  of  the  metropo- 
lis. Firstly,  that  he  have  his  boots  cleaned.  Secondly, 
that  he  eat  a penny  ice.  Thirdly,  that  he  get  himself  pho- 
tographed. Then  do  I speculate,  What  have  those  seam- 
worn  artists  been  who  stand  at  the  photograph  doors  in 
Greek  caps,  sample  in  hand,  and  mysteriously  salute  the 
public — the  female  public  with  a pressing  tenderness — to 
come  in  and  be  took  ? What  did  they  do  with  their 
greasy  blandishments,  before  the  era  of  cheap  photogra- 
phy? Of  what  class  were  their  previous  victims,  and  how 
victimised?  And  how  did  they  get,  and  how  did  they  pay 
for,  that  large  collection  of  likenesses,  all  purporting  to 
have  been  taken  inside,  with  the  taking  of  none  of  which 
had  that  establishment  any  more  to  do  than  with  the  tak- 
ing of  Delhi? 

But,  these  are  small  oases,  and  I am  soon  back  again  in 
metropolitan  Arcadia.  It  is  my  impression  that  much  of 
its  serene  and  peaceful  character  is  attributable  to  the  ab- 
sence of  customary  Talk.  How  do  I know  but  there  may 
be  subtle  influences  in  Talk,  to  vex  the  souls  of  men  who 
don’t  hear  it?  How  do  I know  but  that  Talk,  five,  ten, 
twenty  miles  off,  may  get  into  the  air  and  disagree  with 
me?  If  I rise  from  my  bed,  vaguely  troubled  and  wearied 
and  sick  of  my  life,  in  the  session  of  Parliament,  who  shall 
say  that  my  noble  friend,  my  right  reverend  friend,  my 
right  honourable  friend,  my  honourable  friend,  my  hon- 
ourable and  learned  friend,  or  my  honourable  and  gallant 
friend,  may  not  be  responsible  for  that  effect  upon  my 
nervous  system?  Too  much  Ozone  in  the  air,  I am  in- 
formed and  fully  believe  (though  I have  no  idea  what  it 
is),  would  affect  me  in  a marvellously  disagreeable  way; 
why  may  not  too  much  Talk?  I don’t  see  or  hear  the 
Ozone;  I don’t  see  or  hear  the  Talk.  And  there  is  so 
much  Talk;  so  much  too  much;  such  loud  cry,  and  such 
scant  supply  of  wool;  such  a deal  of  fieecing,  and  so  little 
fleece ! Hence,  in  the  Arcadian  season,  I find  it  a delicious 
triumph  to  walk  down  to  deserted  Westminster,  and  see 
the  Courts  shut  up;  to  walk  a little  further  and  see  the 
Two  Houses  shut  up;  to  stand  in  the  Abbey  Yard,  like  the 
New  Zealander  of  the  grand  English  History  (concerning 
which  unfortunate  man,  a whole  rookery  of  mares’  nests  is 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


161 


generally  being  discovered),  and  gloat  upon  the  ruins  of 
Talk.  Keturning  to  my  primitive  solitude  and  lying  down 
to  sleep,  my  grateful  heart  expands  with  a consciousness 
that  there  is  no  adjourned  Debate,  no  ministerial  explana- 
tion, nobody  to  give  notice  of  intention  to  ask  the  noble 
Lord  at  the  head  of  her  Majesty’s  Government  five-and- 
twenty  bootless  questions  in  one,  no  term  time  with  legal 
argument,  no  Nisi  Prius  with  eloquent  appeal  to  British 
Jury;  that  the  air  will  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to- 
morrow, remain  untroubled  by  this  superabundant  genera- 
ting of  Talk.  In  a minor  degree  it  is  a delicious  triumph 
to  me  to  go  into  the  club,  and  see  the  carpets  up,  and  the 
Bores  and  the  other  dust  dispersed  to  the  four  winds. 
Again  New  Zealander-like,  I stand  on  the  cold  hearth,  and 
say  in  the  solitude,  ''  Here  I watched  Bore  A 1,  with  voice 
always  mysteriously  low  and  head  always  mysteriously 
drooped,  whispering  political  secrets  into  the  ears  of 
Adam’s  confiding  children.  Accursed  be  his  memory  for 
ever  and  a day  ! ” 

But,  I have  all  this  time  been  coming  to  the  point,  that 
the  happy  nature  of  my  retirement  is  most  sweetly  ex- 
pressed in  its  being  the  abode  of  Love.  It  is,  as  it  were, 
an  inexpensive  Agapemone:  nobody’s  speculation:  every- 
body’s profit.  The  one  great  result  of  the  resumption  of 
primitive  habits,  and  (convertible  terms)  the  not  having 
much  to  do,  is,  the  abounding  of  Love. 

The  Klem  species  are  incapable  of  the  softer  emotions; 
probably,  in  that  low  nomadic  race,  the  softer  emotions 
have  all  degenerated  into  flue.  But,  with  this  exception, 
all  the  sharers  of  my  retreat  make  love. 

I have  mentioned  Saville-row.  We  all  know  the  Doc- 
tor’s servant.  We  all  know  what  a respectable  man  he  is, 
what  a hard  dry  man,  what  a firm  man,  what  a confiden- 
tial man : how  he  lets  us  into  the  waiting-room,  like  a man 
who  knows  minutely  what  is  the  matter  with  us,  but  from 
whom  the  rack  should  not  wring  the  secret.  In  the  pro- 
saic ‘‘season,”  he  has  distinctly  the  appearance  of  a man 
conscious  of  money  in  the  savings  bank,  and  taking  his 
stand  on  his  respectability  with  both  feet.  At  that  time  it 
is  as  impossible  to  associate  him  with  relaxation,  or  any 
human  weakness,  as  it  is  to  meet  his  eye  without  feeling 
guilty  of  indisposition.  In  the  blest  Arcadian  time,  how 
changed ! I have  seen  him,  in  a pepper-and-salt  jacket — 


ibj  the  uncommercial  traveller. 

jacket— and  drab  trousers,  with  his  arm  round  the  waist  of 
a bootmaker’s  housemaid,  smiling  in  open  day.  I have 
seen  him  at  the  pump  by  the  Albany,  unsolicitedly  pump- 
ing for  two  fair  young  creatures,  whose  figures  as  they  bent 
over  their  cans,  were — if  I may  be  allowed  an  original  ex- 
pression—a model  for  the  sculptor.  I have  seen  him  try- 
ing the  piano  in  the  Doctor’s  drawing-room  with  his  fore- 
finger, and  have  heard  him  humming  tunes  in  praise  of 
lovely  woman.  I have  seen  him  seated  on  a fire-engine, 
and  going  (obviously  in  search  of  excitement)  to  a fire,  i 
saw  him,  one  moonlight  evening  when  the  peace  and  purity 
of  our  Arcadian  west  were  at  their  height,  polk  with  the 
lovely  daughter  of  a cleaner  of  gloves,  from  the  door-steps 
of  his  own  residence,  across  Saville-row,  round  by  Clifford- 
street  and  Old  Burlington-street,  back  to  Burlington-gar- 
dens.  Is  this  the  Golden  Age  revived,  or  Iron  London? 

The  Dentist’s  servant.  Is  that  man  no  mystery  to  us, 
no  type  of  invisible  power?  The  tremendous  individual 
knows  (who  else  does?)  what  is  done  with  the  extracted 
teeth;  he  knows  what  goes  on  in  the  little  room  where 
something  is  always  being  washed  or  filed;  he  knows  what 
warm  spicy  infusion  is  put  into  the  comfortable  tumbler 
from  which  we  rinse  our  wounded  mouth,  with  a gap  in  it 
that  feels  a foot  wide;  he  knows  whether  the  thing  we  spit 
into  is  a fixture  communicating  with  the  Thames,  or  could 
be  cleared  away  for  a dance;  he  sees  the  horrible  parlour 
when  there  are  no  patients  in  it,  and  he  could  reveal,  if  he 
would,  what  becomes  of  the  Every-Day  Book  then.  The 
conviction  of  my  coward  conscience  when  I see  that  man  in 
a professional  light,  is,  that  he  knows  all  the  statistics  of 
my  teeth  and  gums;  my  double  teeth,  my  single  teeth,  my 
stopped  teeth,  and  my  sound.  In  this  Arcadian  rest,  I am 
fearless  of  him  as  of  a harmless,  powerless  creature  in  a 
Scotch  cap,  who  adores  a young  lady  in  a voluminous 
crinoline,  at  a neighbouring  billiard-room,  and  whose  pas- 
sion would  be  uninfiuenced  if  every  one  of  her  teeth  were 
false.  They  may  be.  He  takes  them  all  on  trust. 

In  secluded  corners  of  the  place  of  my  seclusion,  there 
are  little  shops  withdrawn  from  public  curiosity,  and  never 
two  together,  where  servants’  perquisites  are  bought.  The 
cook  may  dispose  of  grease  at  these  modest  and  convenient 
marts;  the  butler,  of  bottles;  the  valet  and  lady’s  maid, 
of  clothes;  most  servants,  indeed,  of  most  things  they  may 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


163 


happen  to  lay  hold  of.  I have  been  told  that  in  sterner 
times  loving  correspondence,  otherwise  interdicted,  may  be 
maintained  by  letter  through  the  agency  of  some  of  these 
useful  establishments.  In  the  Arcadian  autumn,  no  such 
device  is  necessary.  Everybody  loves,  and  openly,  and 
blamelessly  loves.  My  landlord’s  young  man  loves  the 
whole  of  one  side  of  the  way  of  Old  Bond-street,  and  is  be- 
loved several  doors  up  New  Bond-street  besides.  I never 
look  out  of  window  but  I see  kissing  of  hands  going  on  all 
around  me.  It  is  the  morning  custom  to  glide  from  shop 
to  shop  and  exchange  tender  sentiments;  it  is  the  evening 
custom  for  couples  to  stand  hand  in  hand  at  house  doors, 
or  roam,  linked  in  that  flowery  manner,  through  the  unpeo- 
pled streets.  There  is  nothing  else  to  do  but  love;  and 
what  there  is  to  do,  is  done. 

In  unison  with  this  pursuit,  a chaste  simplicity  obtains 
in  the  domestic  habits  of  Arcadia.  Its  few  scattered 
people  dine  early,  live  moderately,  sup  socially,  and  sleep 
soundly.  It  is  rumoured  that  the  Beadles  of  the  Arcade, 
from  being  the  mortal  enemies  of  boys,  have  signed  with 
tears  an  address  to  Lord  Shaftesbury,  and  subscribed  to  a 
ragged  school.  No  wonder!  For,  they  might  turn  their 
heavy  maces  into  crooks  and  tend  sheep  in  the  Arcade,  to 
the  purling  of  the  water-carts  as  they  give  the  thirsty 
streets  much  more  to  drink  than  they  can  carry. 

A happy  Golden  Age,  and  a serene  tranquillity.  Charm- 
ing picture,  but  it  will  fade.  The  iron  age  will  return, 
London  will  come  back  to  town,  if  I show  my  tongue  then 
in  Saville-row  for  half  a minute  I shall  be  prescribed  for, 
the  Doctor’s  man  and  the  Dentist’s  man  will  then  pretend 
that  these  days  of  unprofessional  innocence  never  existed. 
Where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Klein  and  their  bed  will  be  at  that 
time,  passes  human  knowledge;  but  my  hatter  hermitage 
will  then  know  them  no  more,  nor  will  it  then  know  me. 
The  desk  at  which  I have  written  these  meditations  will 
retributively  assist  at  the  making  out  of  my  account,  and 
the  wheels  of  gorgeous  carriages  and  the  hoofs  of  high- 
stepping  horses  will  crush  the  silence  out  of  Bond-street — 
will  grind  Arcadia  away,  and  give  it  to  the  elements  in 
granite  powder. 


164 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


XVII. 

THE  ITALIAN  PRISONER. 

The  rising  of  the  Italian  people  from  under  their  unut- 
terable wrongs,  and  the  tardy  burst  of  day  upon  them  after 
the  long  long  night  of  oppression  that  has  darkened  their 
beautiful  country,  have  naturally  caused  my  mind  to  dwell 
often  of  late  on  my  own  small  .wanderings  in  Italy.  Con- 
nected with  them,  is  a curious  little  drama,  in  which  the 
character  I myself  sustained  was  so  very  subordinate  that 
I may  relate  its  story  without  any  fear  of  being  suspected 
of  seif-display.  It  is  strictly  a true  story. 

I am  newly  arrived  one  summer  evening,  in  a certain 
small  town  on  the  Mediterranean.  I have  had  my  dinner 
at  the  inn,  and  I and  the  mosquitoes  are  coming  out  into 
the  streets  together.  It  is  far  from  Naples;  but  a bright 
brown  plump  little  woman-servant  at  the  inn,  is  a Neapoli- 
tan, and  is  so  vivaciously  expert  in  pantomimic  action,  that 
in  the  single  moment  of  answering  my  request  to  have  a 
pair  of  shoes  cleaned  which  I have  left  up-stairs,  she  plies 
imaginary  brushes,  and  goes  completely  through  the  mo- 
tions of  polishing  the  shoes  up,  and  laying  them  at  my 
feet.  I smile  at  the  brisk  little  woman  in  perfect  satisfac- 
tion with  her  briskness;  and  the  brisk  little  woman,  amia- 
bly pleased  with  me  because  I am  pleased  with  her,  claps 
her  hands  and  laughs  delightfully.  We  are  in  the  inn 
yard.  As  the  little  woman’s  bright  eyes  sparkle  on  the 
cigarette  I am  smoking  I make  bold  to  offer  her  one;  she 
accepts  it  none  the  less  merrily,  because  I touch  a most 
charming  little  dimple  in  her  fat  cheek,  with  its  light  pa- 
per end.  Glancing  up  at  the  many  green  lattices  to  assure 
herself  that  the  mistress  is  not  looking  on,  the  little  woman 
theii  puts  her  two  little  dimpled  arms  a-kimbo,  and  stands 
on  tiptoe  to  light  her  cigarette  at  mine.  “And  now,  dear 
little  sir,”  says  she,  puffing  out  smoke  in  a most  innocent 
and  cherubic  manner,  “keep  quite  straight  on,  take  tlie 
first  to  the  right,  and  probably  you  will  see  him  standing 
at  his  door.” 

I have  a commission  to  “him,”  and  I have  been  inquir- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


165 


iiig  about  him.  I have  carried  the  commission  about  Italy 
several  months.  Before  I left  England,  there  came  to  me 
one  night  a certain  generous  and  gentle  English  nobleman 
(he  is  dead  in  these  days  when  I relate  the  story,  and  ex- 
iles have  lost  their  best  British  friend),  with  this  request: 

Whenever  you  come  to  such  a town,  will  you  seek  out  one 
Giovanni  Carlavero,  who  keeps  a little  wine-shop  there, 
mention  my  name  to  him  suddenly,  and  observe  how  it 
affects  him?  ” I accepted  the  trust,  and  am  on  my  way  to 
discharge  it. 

The  sirocco  has  been  blowing  all  day,  and  it  is  a hot  un- 
wholesome evening  with  no  cool  sea-breeze.  Mosquitoes 
and  fire-flies  are  lively  enough,  but  most  other  creatures  are 
faint.  The  coquettish  airs  of  pretty  young  women  in  the 
tiniest  and  wickedest  of  dolls’  straw-hats,  who  lean  out  at 
open  lattice  blinds,  are  almost  the  only  airs  stirring.  Very 
ugly  and  haggard  old  women  with  distaffs,  and  with  a grey 
I tow  upon  them  that  looks  as  if  they  were  spinning  out  their 
lown  hair  (I  suppose  they  were  once  pretty,  too,  but  itds 
very  difficult  to  believe  so),  sit  on  the  footway  leaning 
against  house  walls.  Everyl3ody  who  has  come  for  water 
to  the  fountain,  stays  there,  and  seems  incapable  of  any 
such  energetic  idea  as  going  home.  Vespers  are  over, 
though  not  so  long  but  that  I can  smell  the  heavy  resinous 
incense  as  I pass  the  church.  No  man  seems  to  be  at  work, 
save  the  coppersmith.  In  an  Italian  town  he  is  always  at 
work,  and  always  thumping  in  the  deadliest  manner. 

I keep  straight  on,  and  come  in  due  time  to  the  first  on 
the  right : a narrow  dull  street,  where  I see  a well-favoured 
man  of  good  stature  and  military  bearing,  in  a great  cloak, 
standing  at  a door.  Drawing  nearer  to  this  threshold,  I 
see  it  is  the  threshold  of  a small  wine-shop;  and  I can  just 
make  out,  in  the  dim  light,  the  inscription  that  it  is  kept 
by  Giovanni  Carlavero. 

I touch  my  hat  to  the  figure  in  the  cloak,  and  pass  in, 
and  draw  a stool  to  a little  table.  The  lamp  (just  such 
another  as  they  dig  out  of  Pompeii)  is  lighted,  but  the 
place  is  empty.  The  figure  in  the  cloak  has  followed  me 
in,  and  stands  before  me. 

‘‘  The  master?  ” 

‘‘At  your  service,  sir.” 

“Please  to  give  me  a glass  of  the  wine  of  the  country.” 

He  turns  to  a little  counter,  to  get  it.  As  his  striking 


166 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


face  is  pale,  and  his  action  is  evidently  that  of  an  enfeebled 
man,  I remark  that  1 fear  he  has  been  ill.  It  is  not  much, 
he  courteously  and  gravely  answers,  though  bad  while  it 
lasts : the  fever. 

As  he  sets  the  wine  on  the  little  table,  to  his  manifest 
surprise  I lay  my  hand  on  the  back  of  his,  look  him  in  the 
face,  and  say  in  a low  voice : I am  an  Englishman,  and 

you  are  acquainted  with  a friend  of  mine.  Do  you  recol- 
lect  ? and  I mentioned  the  name  of  my  generous 

countryman. 

Instantly,  he  utters  a loud  cry,  bursts  into  tears,  and 
falls  on  his  knees  at  my  feet,  clasping  my  legs  in  both  his 
arms  and  bowing  his  head  to  the  ground. 

Some  years  ago,  this  man  at  my  feet,  whose  over- fraught 
heart  is  heaving  as  if  it  would  burst  from  his  breast,  and 
whose  tears  are  wet  upon  the  dress  I wear,  was  a galley- 
slave  in  the  North  of  Italy.  He  was  a political  offender, 
having  been  concerned  in  the  then  last  rising,  and  was  sen- 
tenced to  imprisonment  for  life.  That  he  would  have  died 
in  his  chains,  is  certain,  but  for  the  circumstance  that  the 
Englishman  happened  to  visit  his  prison. 

It  was  one  of  the  vile  old  prisons  of  Italy,  and  a part  of 
it  was  below  the  waters  of  the  harbour.  The  place  of  his 
confinement  was  an  arched  under-ground  and  under- water 
gallery,  with  a grill-gate  at  the  entrance,  through  which  it 
received  such  light  and  air  as  it  got.  Its  condition  was  in- 
sufferably foul,  and  a stranger  could  hardly  breathe  in  it, 
or  see  in  it  with  the  aid  of  a torch.  At  the  upper  end  of 
this  dungeon,  and  consequently  in  the  worst  position,  as 
being  the  furthest  removed  from  light  aiid  air,  the  Eng- 
lishman first  beheld  him,  sitting  on  an  iron  bedstead  to 
which  he  was  chained  by  a heavy  chain.  His  countenance 
impressed  the  Englishman  as  having  nothing  in  common 
with  the  faces  of  the  malefactors  with  whom  he  was  asso- 
ciated, and  he  talked  with  him,  and  learnt  how  he  came  to 
be  there. 

When  the  Englishman  emerged  from  the  dreadful  den 
into  the  light  of  day,  he  asked  his  conductor,  the  governor 
of  the  jail,  why  Giovanni  Carla vero  was  put  into  the  worst 
place? 

‘‘Because  he  is  particularly  recommended,^’  was  the 
stringent  answer. 

“ Recommended,  that  is  to  say,  for  death?  ” 


the  uncommercial  traveller.  U)7 

‘^Excuse  me;  particularly  recommended/^  was  again  the 
I answer. 

I He  has  a bad  tumour  in  his  neck,  no  doubt  occasioned 
by  the  hardship  of  his  miserable  life.  If  he  continues  to 
bejieglected,  and  he  remains  where  he  is,  it  will  kill  hiin.'^ 
Excuse  me,  I can  do  nothing.  He  is  particularly  rec- 
ommended.’^ 

The  Englishman  was  staying  in  that  town,  and  he  went 
to  his  home  there;  but  the  figure  of  this  man  chained  to 
the  bedstead  made  it  no  home,  and  destroyed  his  rest  and 
peace.  He  was  an  Englishman  of  an  extraordinarily  ten- 
der heart,  and  he  could  not  bear  the  picture.  He  went 
back  to  the  prison  grate;  went  back  again  and  again,  and 
talked  to  the  man  and  cheered  him.  He  used  his  utmost 
influence  to  get  the  man  unchained  from  the  bedstead,  were 
: it  only  for  ever  so  short  a time  in  the  day,  and  permitted 
to  come  to  the  grate.  It  took  a long  time,  but  the  Eng- 
lishman’s station,  personal  character,  and  steadiness  of 
purpose,  wore  out  opposition  so  far,  and  that  grace  was  at 
. last  accorded.  Through  the  bars,  when  he  could  thus  get 
light  upon  the  tumour,  the  Englishman  lanced  it,  and  it 
did  well,  and  healed.  His  strong  interest  in  the  prisoner 
had  greatly  increased  by  this  time,  and  he  formed  the  des- 
perate resolution  that  he  would  exert  his  utmost  self- 
devotion  and  use  his  utmost  efforts,  to  get  Carlavero  par- 
doned. ^ 

If  the  prisoner  had  been  a brigand  and  a murderer,  if  he 
had  committed  every  non-political  crime  in  the  Newgate 
^Calendar  and  out  of  it,  nothing  would  have  been  easier  than 
for  a man  of  any  court  or  priestly  influence  to  obtain  his 
release.  As  it  was,  nothing  could  have  been  more  difficult. 
Ltahan  authorities,  and  English  authorities  who  had  interest 
with  them,  alike  assured  the  Englishman  that  his  object  was 
Aopeless.  He  met  with  nothing  but  evasion,  refusal,  and 
ridicule.  His  political  prisoner  became  a joke  in  the  place 
[t  w^  especially  observable  that  English  Circumlocution, 
Society  on  its  travels,  were  as  humorous  on 
^he  subject  as  Circumlocution  and  Society  may  be  on  any 
(Subject  without  loss_  of  caste.  But,  the  Englishman  pos- 
sessed. (and  proved  it  well  in  his  life)  a courage  very  un- 
iommon  among  us : he  had  not  the  least  fear  of  being  con- 
sidered a bore,  in  a good  humane  cause.  So  he  went  on 
lersistently  trying,  and  trying,  and  trying,  to  get  Giovanni 


1G8 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Carlavero  out.  That  prisoner  had  been  rigorously  re- 
chained, after  the  tumour  operation,  and  it  was  not  likely 
that  his  miserable  life  could  last  very  long. 

One  day,  when  all  the  town  knew  about  the  Englishman 
and  his  political  prisoner,  there  came  to  the  Englishman,  a 
certain  sprightly  Italian  Advocate  of  whom  he  had  some 
knowledge;  and  he  made  this  strange  proposal.  ^^Give 
me  a hundred  pounds  to  obtain  Carlavero’ s release.  I 
think  I can  get  him  a pardon,  with  that  money.  But  I 
cannot  tell  you  what  I am  going  to  do  with  the  money,  nor 
must  you  ever  ask  me  the  question  if  I succeed,  nor  must 
you  ever  ask  me  for  an  account  of  the  money  if  I fail.” 
The  Englishman  decided  to  hazard  the  hundred  pounds. 
He  did  so,  and  heard  not  another  word  of  the  matter.  For 
half  a year  and  more,  the  Advocate  made  no  sign,  and 
never  once  ^Hook  on”  in  any  way,  to  have  the  subject  on 
his  mind.  The  Englishman  was  then  obliged  to  change  his 
residence  to  another  and  more  famous  town  in  the  North  of 
Italy.  He  parted  from  the  poor  prisoner  with  a sorrowful 
heart,  as  from  a doomed  man  for  whom  there  was  no  re- 
lease but  Death. 

The  Englishman  lived  in  his  new  place  of  abode  another 
half-year  and  more,  and  had  no  tidings  of  the  wretched 
prisoner.  At  length,  one  day,  he  received  from  the  Advo- 
cate a cool  concise  mysterious  note,  to  this  effect.  ^Hf  you 
still  wish  to  bestow  that  benefit  upon  the  man  in  whom 
you  were  once  interested,  send  me  fifty  pounds  more,  and  I 
think  it  can  be  ensured.”  Now,  the  Englishman  had  long 
settled  in  his  mind  that  the  Advocate  was  a heartless 
sharper,  who  had  preyed  upon  his  credulity  and  his  inter- 
est in  an  unfortunate  sufferer.  So,  he  sat  down  and  wrote 
a dry  answer,  giving  the  Advocate  to  understand  that  he 
was  wiser  now  than  he  had  been  formerly,  and  that  no 
more  money  was  extractable  from  his  pocket. 

He  lived  outside  the  city  gates,  some  mile  or  two  from 
the  post-office,  and  was  accustomed  to  walk  into  the  city 
with  his  letters  and  post  them  himself.  On  a lovely  spring 
day,  when  the  sky  was  exquisitely  blue,  and  the  sea  Di- 
vinely beautiful,  he  took  his  usual  walk,  carrying  this  let- 
ter to  the  Advocate  in  his  pocket.  As  he  went  along,  his 
gentle  heart  was  much  moved  by  the  loveliness  of  the  pros- 
pect, and  by  the  thought  of  the  slowly-dying  prisoner 
chained  to  the  bedstead,  for  whom  the  universe  had  no  de- 


. THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  169 

lights.  As  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  city  where  he 
was  to  post  the  letter,  he  became  very  uneasy  in  his  mind, 
lie  debated  with  himself,  was  it  remotely  possible,  after 
jjall,  that  this  sum  of  fifty  pounds  could  restore  the  fellow- 
I Jieature  whom  he  pitied  so  much  and  for  whom  he  had 
, 5tiiven  so  hard,  to  liberty?  He  was  not  a conventionally 
jjich  Englishman— very  far  from  that— but,  he  had  a spare 
|jifty  pounds  at  the  banker’s.  He  resolved  to  risk  it. 

• tVithout  doubt,  God  has  recompensed  him  for  the  resolu- 
tion. 

k He  went  to  the  banker’s,  and  got  a bill  for  the  amount, 

_ ind  enclosed  it  in  a letter  to  the  Advocate  that  I wish  I 
iiiould  have  seen.  He  simply  told  the  Advocate  that  he 
vas  quite  a poor  man,  and  that  he  was  sensible  it  might  be 
.1  great  weakness  in  him  to  part  with  so  much  money  on 
|he  faith  of  so  vague  a communication;  but,  that  there  it 
|ras,  and  that  he  prayed  the  Advocate  to  make  a good  use 
'f  it.  If  he  did  otherwise  no  good  could  ever  come  of  it, 
,nd  it  would  lie  heavy  on  his  soul  one  day. 

I Within  a week,  the  Englishman  was  sitting  at  his  break- 
ast,  when  he  heard  some  suppressed  sounds  of  agitation 
n the  staircase,  and  Giovanni  Carlavero  leaped  into  the 
iDom  and  fell  upon  his  breast,  a free  man ! 

^ Conscious  of  having  wronged  the  Advocate  in  his  own 
ihoughts,  the  Englishman  wrote  him  an  earnest  and  grate- 
ful letter,  avowing  the  fact,  and  entreating  him  to  confide 
y what  means  and  through  what  agency  he  had  succeeded 

0 '^ell.^  The  Advocate  returned  for  answer  through  the 
i'ost.  “There  are  many  things,  as  you  know,  in  this  Italy 

; f ours,  that  are  safest  and  best  not  even  spoken  of far 

j'iss  written  of.  We  may  meet  some  day,  and  then  I may 
i.ill  you  what  you  want  to  know;  not  here,  and  now.” 
>ut,  the  two  never  did  meet  again.  The  Advocate  was 
(Bad  when  the  Englishman  gave  me  my  trust;  and  how  the 

1 tan  had  been  set  free,  remained  as  great  a mystery  to  the 
nglishman,  and  to  the  man  himself,  as  it  was  to  me. 

I But,  I knew  this : — here  was  the  man,  this  sultry  night, 
j i his  knees  at  my  feet,  because  I was  the  Englishman’s 
I iend;  here  were  his  tears  upon  my  dress;  here  were  his 
I )bs  choking  his  utterance ; here  were  his  kisses  on  my  , 

; inds,  because  they  had  touched  the  hands  that  had  worked 
'it  his  release.  He  had  no  need  to  tell  me  it  would  be 
Fippiness  to  him  to  die  for  his  benefactor;  I doubt  if  I 


170 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


ever  saw  real,  sterling,  fervent  gratitude  of  soul,  before  or 
since. 

He  was  much  watched  and  suspected,  he  said,  and  had 
had  enough  to  do  to  keep  himself  out  of  trouble.  This, 
and  his  not  having  prospered  in  his  worldly  affairs,  had  led 
to  his  having  failed  in  his  usual  communications  to  the 
Englishman  for — as  I now  remember  the  period — some  two 
or  tliree  years.  But,  his  prospects  Avere  brighter,  and  his 
wife  who  had  been  very  ill  had  recovered,  and  his  fever 
had  left  him,  and  he  had  bought  a little  vineyard,  and 
would  I carry  to  his  benefactor  the  first  of  its  wine?  Ay, 
that  I would  (I  told  him  with  enthusiasm),  and  not  a drop 
of  it  should  be  spilled  or  lost ! 

He  had  cautiously  closed  the  door  before  speaking  of 
himself,  and  had  talked  with  such  excess  of  emotion,  and 
in  a provincial  Italian  so  difficult  to  understand,  that  I had 
more  than  once  been  obliged  to  stop  him,  and  beg  him  to 
have  compassion  on  me  and  be  slower  and  calmer.  By  de- 
grees he  became  so,  and  tranquilly  walked  back  with  me 
to  the  hotel.  There,  I sat  down  before  I went  to  bed  and 
wrote  a faithful  account  of  him  to  the  Englishman : which 
I concluded  by  saying  that  I would  bring  the  wine  home, 
against  any  difficulties,  every  drop. 

Early  next  morning,  when  I came  out  at  the  hotel  door 
to  pursue  my  journey,  I found  my  friend  waiting  with  one 
of  those  immense  bottles  in  which  the  Italian  peasants  store 
their  wine — a bottle  holding  some  half-dozen  gallons — 
bound  round  with  basket-work  for  greater  safety  on  the 
journey.  I see  him  now,  in  the  bright  sunlight,  tears  of 
gratitude  in  his  eyes,  proudly  inviting  my  attention  to  this 
corpulent  bottle.  (At  the  street-corner  hard  by,  two  high- 
flavoured  able-bodied  monks — pretending  to  talk  together, 
but  keeping  their  four  evil  eyes  upon  us.) 

How  the  bottle  had  been  got  there,  did  not  appear;  but 
the  difficulty  of  getting  it  into  the  ramshackle  vetturino 
carriage  in  which  I was  departing,  was  so  great,  and  it 
took  up  so  much  room  when  it  was  got  in,  that  I elected  to 
sit  outside.  The  last  I saw  of  Giovanni  Carlavero  was  his 
running  through  the  town  by  the  side  of  the  jingling 
wheels,  clasping  my  hand  as  I stretched  it  down  from  the 
box,  charging  me  with  a thousand  last  loving  and  dutiful 
messages  to  his  dear  patron,  and  finally  looking  in  at  the 
bottle  as  it  reposed  inside,  with  an  admiration  of  its  lion- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


171 


Durable  way  of  travelling  that  was  beyond  measure  de- 
lightful. 

And  now,  what  disquiet  of  mind  this  dearly-beloved  and 
highly-treasured  Bottle  began  to  cost  me,  no  man  knows. 
It  was  my  precious  charge  through  a long  tour,  and,  for 
hundreds  of  miles,  I never  had  it  off  my  mind  by  day  or  by 
night.  Over  bad  roads — and  they  were  many — I clung  to 
it  with  affectionate  desperation.  Up  mountains,  I looked 
in  at  it  and  saw  it  helplessly  tilting  over  on  its  back,  with 
terror.  At  innumerable  inn  doors  when  the  weather  was 
bad,  I was  obliged  to  be  put  into  my  vehicle  before  the  Bot- 
tle could  be  got  in,  and  was  obliged  to  have  the  Bottle  lifted 
out  before  human  aid  could  come  near  me.  The  Imp  of 
the  same  name,  except  that  his  associations  were  all  evil 
and  these  associations  were  all  good,  would  have  been 
a less  troublesome  travelling  companion.  I might  have 
served  Mr.  Cruikshank  as  a subject  for  a new  illustration 
of  the  miseries  of  the  Bottle.  The  National  Temperance 
jSociety  might  have  made  a powerful  Tract  of  me. 

The  suspicions  that  attached  to  this  innocent  Bottle, 
greatly  aggravated  my  difficulties.  It  was  like  the  apple- 
pie  in  the  child’s  book.  Parma  pouted  at  it,  Modena 
mocked  it,  Tuscany  tackled  it,  Naples  nibbled  it,  Rome 
refused  it,  Austria  accused  it.  Soldiers  suspected  it,  Jesuits 
jobbed  it.  I composed  a neat  Oration,  developing  my  in- 
offensive intentions  in  connection  with  this  Bottle,  and  de- 
livered it  in  an  infinity  of  guard -houses,  at  a multitude  of 
town  gates,  and  on  every  drawbridge  angle,  and  rampart,  of 
a,  complete  system  of  fortifications.  Fifty  times  a day,  I 
got  down  to  harangue  an  infuriated  soldiery  about  the  Bot- 
,ble.  Through  the  filthy  degradation  of  the  abject  and  vile 
Roman  States,  I had  as  much  difficulty  in  working  my  way 
with  the  Bottle,  as  if  it  had  bottled  up  a complete  system 
af  heretical  theology.  In  the  Neapolitan  country,  where 
3verybody  was  a spy,  a soldier,  a priest,  or  a lazzarone, 
she  shameless  beggars  of  all  four  denominations  incessantly 
pounced  on  the  Bottle  and  made  it  a pretext  for  extorting 
money  from  me.  Quires — quires  do  I say?  Reams — of 
Lorms  illegibly  printed  on  whity-brown  paper  were  filled 
ip  about  the  Bottle,  and  it  was  the  subject  of  more  stamp-* 
:Ug  and  sanding  than  I had  ever  seen  before.  In  conse- 
quence of  which  haze  of  sand,  perhaps,  it  was  always 
.rregular,  and  always  latent  with  dismal  penalties  of  going 


172  the  ijncommerctal  thayelleh. 

back  or  not  going  forward,  which  were  only  to  be  abated 
by  the  silver  crossing  of  a base  hand,  jjoked  shirtless  out 
of  a ragged  uniform  sleeve.  Under  ull  discouragements, 
however,  I stuck  to  my  Bottle,  and  held  firm  to  my  reso- 
lution that  every  drop  of  its  contents  should  reach  the  Bot- 
tlers destination. 

The  latter  refinement  cost  me  a separate  heap  of  troubles 
on  its  own  separate  account.  What  corkscrews  did  I see 
the  military  power  bring  out  against  that  Bottle;  what 
gimlets,  spikes,  divining  rods,  gauges,  and  unknown  tests 
and  instruments!  At  some  places,  they  persisted  in  de- 
claring that  the  wine  must  not  be  passed,  without  being 
opened  and  tasted;  I,  pleading  to  the  contrary,  used  then 
to  argue  the  question  seated  on  the  Bottle  lest  they  should 
open  it  in  spite  of  me.  In  the  southern  parts  of  Italy  more 
violent  shrieking,  face-making,  and  gesticulating,  greater 
vehemence  of  speech  and  countenance  and  action,  went  on 
about  that  Bottle,  than  would  attend  fifty  murders  in  a 
northern  latitude.  It  raised  important  functionaries  out  of 
their  beds,  in  the  dead  of  night.  I have  known  half-a- 
dozen  military  lanterns  to  disperse  themselves  at  all  points 
of  a great  sleeping  Piazza,  each  lantern  summoning  some 
official  creature  to  get  up,  put  on  his  cocked-hat  instantly, 
and  come  and  stop  the  Bottle.  It  was  characteristic  that 
while  this  innocent  Bottle  had  such  immense  difficulty  in 
getting  from  little  town  to  town,  Signor  Mazzini  and  the 
fiery  cross  were  traversing  Italy  from  end  to  end. 

Still,  I stuck  to  my  Bottle,  like  any  fine  old  English 
gentleman  all  of  the  olden  time.  The  more  the  Bottle  was 
interfered  with,  the  stauncher  I became  (if  possible)  in  my 
first  determination  that  my  countryman  should  have  it  de-  i 
livered  to  him  intact,  as  the  man  whom  he  had  so  nobly  re-  I 
stored  to  life  and  liberty  had  delivered  it  to  me.  If  ever  I ! 
had  been  obstinate  in  my  days — and  I may  have  been,  say,  | 
once  or  twice — I was  obstinate  about  the  Bottle.  But,  I | 
made  it  a rule  always  to  keep  a pocket  full  of  small  coin 
at  its  service,  and  never  to  be  out  of  temper  in  its  cause. 
Thus,  I and  the  Bottle  made  our  way.  Once  we  had  a 
break-down;  rather  a bad  break-down,  on  a steep  high 
place  with  the  sea  below  us,  on  a tempestuous  evening  i 
when  it  blew  great  guns.  We  were  driving  four  wild 
horses  abreast,  Southern  fashion,  and  there  was  some  little 
difficulty  in  stopping  them.  I was  outside,  and  not  thrown 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


173 


off;  but  no  words  can  describe  my  feelings  when  I saw  the 
Bottle — travelling  inside,  as  usual — burst  the  door  open, 
and  roll  obesely  out  into  the  road.  A blessed  Bottle  with 
a charmed  existence,  he  took  no  hurt,  and  we  repaired  dam- 
age, and  went  on  triumphant. 

A thousand  representations  were  made  to  me  that  the 
Bottle  must  be  left  at  this  place,  or  that,  and  called  for 
again.  I never  yielded  to  one  of  them,  and  never  parted 
from  the  Bottle,  on  any  pretence,  consideration,  threat,  or 
entreaty.  I had  no  faith  in  any  official  receipt  for  the  Bot- 
tle, and  nothing  would  induce  me  to  accept  one.  These 
unmanageable  politics  at  last  brought  me  and  the  Bottle, 
still  triumphant,  to  Genoa.  There,  I took  a tender  and  re- 
luctant leave  of  him  for  a few  weeks,  and  consigned  him 
to  a trusty  English  captain,  to  be  conveyed  to  the  Port  of 
London  by  sea. 

While  the  Bottle  was  on  his  voyage  to  England,  I read 
the  Shipping  Intelligence  as  anxiously  as  if  I had  been  an 
underwriter.  There  was  some  stormy  weather  after  I my- 
self had  got  to  England  by  way  of  Switzerland  and  France, 
and  my  mind  greatly  misgave  me  that  the  Bottle  might  be 
wrecked.  At  last  to  my  great  joy,  I received  notice  of  his 
safe  arrival,  and  immediately  went  down  to  Saint  Katha- 
rine’s Docks,  and  found  him  in  a state  of  honourable  cap- 
tivity in  the  Custom  House. 

The  wine  was  mere  vinegar  when  I set  it  down  before 
the  generous  Englishman — probably  it  had  been  something 
like  vinegar  when  I took  it  up  from  Giovanni  Carlavero — 
but  not  a drop  of  it  was  spilled  or  gone.  And  the  English- 
man told  me,  with  much  emotion  in  his  face  and  voice,  that 
he  had  never  tasted  wine  that  seemed  to  him  so  sweet  and 
sound.  And  long  afterwards,  the  Bottle  graced  his  table. 
And  the  last  time  I saw  him  in  this  world  that  misses  him, 
he  took  me  aside  in  a crowd,  to  say,  with  his  amiable  smile : 
“We  were  talking  of  you  only  to-day  at  dinner,  and  I 
wished  you  had  been  there,  for  I had  some  Claret  up  in 
Carlavero’ s Bottle.” 


174 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


XVIII. 

THE  CALAIS  NIGHT-MAIL. 

It  is  an  unsettled  question  with  me  whether  I shall  leave 
Calais  something  handsome  in  my  will,  or  whether  I shall 
leave  it  my  malediction.  I hate  it  so  much,  and  yet  I am 
always  so  very  glad  to  see  it,  that  I am  in  a state  of  con- 
stant indecision  on  this  subject. 

When  I first  made  acquaintance  with  Calais,  it  was  as  a 
maundering  young  wretch  in  a clammy  perspiration  and 
dripping  saline  particles,  who  was  conscious  of  no  extremi- 
ties but  the  one  great  extremity,  sea-sickness — who  was  a 
mere  bilious  torso,  with  a mislaid  headache  somewhere  in 
its  stomach — who  had  been  put  into  a horrible  swing  in 
Dover  Harbour,  and  had  tumbled  giddily  out  of  it  on  the 
French  coast,  or  the  Isle  Man,  or  anywhere.  Times  have 
changed,  and  now  I enter  Calais  self-reliant  and  rational. 
I know  where  it  is  beforehand,  I keep  a lookout  for  it,  I 
recognise  its  landmarks  when  I see  any  of  them,  I am  ac- 
quainted with  its  ways,  and  I know — and  I can  bear — its 
worst  behaviour. 

Malignant  Calais ! Low-lying  alligator,  evading  the  eye- 
sight and  discouraging  hope ! Dodging  flat  streak,  now  on 
this  bow,  now  on  that,  now  anywhere,  now  everywhere, 
now  nowhere ! In  vain  Cape  Grinez,  coming  frankly  forth 
into  the  sea,  exhorts  the  failing  to  be  stout  of  heart  and 
stomach:  sneaking  Calais,  prone  behind  its  bar,  invites 
emetically  to  despair.  Even  when  it  can  no  longer  quite 
conceal  itself  in  its  muddy  dock,  it  has  an  evil  way  of  fall- 
ing off,  has  Calais,  which  is  more  hopeless  than  its  invisi- 
bility. The  pier  is  all  but  on  the  bowsprit,  and  you  think 
you  are  there — roll,  roar,  wash ! — Calais  has  retired  miles 
inland,  and  Dover  has  burst  out  to  look  for  it.  It  has  a 
last  dip  and  slide  in  its  character,  has  Calais,  to  be  espe- 
cially commended  to  the  infernal  gods.  Thrice  accursed  be 
that  garrison- town,  when  it  dives  under  the  boaUs  keel, 
and  comes  up  a league  or  two  to  the  right,  with  the  packet 
shivering  and  spluttering  and  staring  about  for  it ! 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


175 


Not  but  what  I have  my  animosities  towards  Dover.  I 
particularly  detest  Dover  for  the  self-complacency  with 
which  it  goes  to  bed.  It  always  goes  to  bed  (when  I am 
going  to  Calais)  with  a more  brilliant  display  of  lamp  and 
candle  than  any  other  town.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Birmingham, 
host  and  hostess  of  the  Lord  Warden  Hotel,  are  my  much 
esteemed  friends,  but  they  are  too  conceited  about  the  com- 
forts of  that  establishment  when  the  Night  Mail  is  start- 
ing. I know  it  is  a good  house  to  stay  at,  and  I don’t 
want  the  fact  insisted  upon  in  all  its  warm  bright  windows 
at  such  an  hour.  I know  the  Warden  is  a stationary  edi- 
fice that  never  rolls  or  pitches,  and  I object  to  its  big  out- 
line seeming  to  insist  upon  that  circumstance,  and,  as  it 
were,  to  come  over  me  with  it,  when  I am  reeling  on  the 
deck  of  the  boat.  Beshrew  the  Warden  likewise,  for  ob- 
structing that  corner,  and  making  the  wind  so  angry  as  it 
rushes  round.  Shall  I not  know  that  it  blows  quite  soon 
Bnough,  without  the  officious  Warden’s  interference? 

As  I wait  here  on  board  the  night  packet,  for  the  South 
Eastern  Train  to  come  down  with  the  Mail,  Dover  appears 
bo  me  to  be  illuminated  for  some  intensely  aggravating  fes- 
bivity  in  my  personal  dishonour.  All  its  noises  smack  of 
haunting  praises  of  the  land,  and  dispraises  of  the  gloomy 
sea,  and  of  me  for  going  on  it.  The  drums  upon  the 
heights  have  gone  to  bed,  or  I know  they  would  rattle 
:aunts  against  me  for  having  my  unsteady  footing  on  this 
slippery  deck.  The  many  gas  eyes  of  the  Marine  Parade 
swinkle  in  an  offensive  manner,  as  if  with  derision.  The 
iistant  dogs  of  Dover  bark  at  me  in  my  misshapen  wrap- 
Ders,  as  if  I were  Bichard  the  Third. 

A screech,  a bell,  and  two  red  eyes  come  gliding  down 
he  Admiralty  Pier  with  a smoothness  of  motion  rendered 
nore  smooth  by  the  heaving  of  the  boat.  The  sea  makes 
loises  against  the  pierj  as  if  several  hippopotami  were  lap- 
)ing  at  it,  and  were  prevented  by  circumstances  over  which 
hey  had  no  control  from  drinking  peaceably.  We,  the 
)oat,  become  violently  agitated— rumble,  hum,  scream, 
oar,  and  establish  an  immense  family  washing-day  at  each 
)addle-box.  Bright  patches  break  out  in  the  train  as  the 
ioors  of  the  post-office  vans  are  opened,  and  instantly  stoop-  - 
ng  figures  with  sacks  upon  their  backs  begin  to  be  beheld 
.mong  the  piles,  descending  as  it  would  seem  in  ghostly 
procession  to  Davy  Jones’s  Locker.  The  passengers  come 


176 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

on  board;  a few  shadowy  Frenchmen,  with  hatboxes  shape 
hke  the  stoppers  of  gigantic  case-bottles;  a few  shadow 
^ermaiis  in  immense  fur  coats  and  boots;  a few  shado’w 
Englishmen  prepared  for  the  worst  and  pretending  not 
expect  it.  I cannot  disguise  from  my  uncommercial  mir 
the  miserable  fact  that  we  are  a body  of  outcasts;  that  tl 
attendants  on  us  are  as  scant  in  number  as  may  serve  ■ 
get  rid  of  us  with  the  least  possible  delay;  that  there  ai 
no  night-loungers  interested  in  us;  that  the  unwillii 
lamps  shiver  and  shudder  at  us;  that  the  sole  object  is  1 
commit  us  to  the  deep  and  abandon  us.  Lo,  the  two  re 
eyes  glaring  in  increasing  distance,  and  then  the  very  trai 
itself  has  gone  to  bed  before  we  are  off! 

What  is  the  moral  support  derived  by  some  sea-goin 
amateurs  from  an  umbrella?  Why  do  certain  voyagei 
across  the  Channel  always  put  up  that  article,  and  hold  i 
up  with  a grim  and  fierce  tenacity?  A fellow-creatuil 
near  me  whom  I only  know  to  be  a fellow-creature,  becaus 
of  his  umbrella : without  which  he  might  be  a dark  bit  o 
cliff,  pier,  or  bulkhead — clutches  that  instrument  with  : 
desperate  grasp,  that  widl  not  relax  until  he  lands  at  Calais 
Is  there  any  analogy,  in  certain  constitutions,  betweei 
keeping  an  umbrella  up,  and  keeping  the  spirits  up?  J 
hawser  thrown  on  board  with  a flop  replies  “ Stand  by ! ' 
“Stand  by,  below.”  “Half  a turn  a head!”  “Half  ; 
turn  a head!”  “Half  speed!”  “Half  speed'”  “Port’’ 
“Port!”  “Steady!”  “Steady!”  “Goon!”  “Goon!’ 
A stout  wooden  wedge  driven  in  at  my  right  temple  and 
out  at  my  left,  a floating  deposit  of  lukewarm  oil  in  m\ 
throat,  and  a compression  of  the  bridge  of  my  nose  in  e 
blunt  pair  of  pincers, — these  are  the  personal  sensations  bv 
which  I know  we  are  off,  and  by  which  I shall  continue  tc 
know  it  until  I am  on  the  soil  of  France.  IVfy  symptoms 
have  scarcely  established  themselves  confortably,  when 
two  or  three  skating  shadows  that  have  been  trying  to  walk 
or  stand,  get  flung  together,  and  other  two  or  three  shad- 
ows in  tarpauling  slide  with  them  into  corners  and  cover 
them  up.  Then  the  South  Foreland  lights  begin  to  hiccuii 
at  us  in  a way  that  bodes  no  good. 

It  is  at  about  this  period  that  my  detestation  of  Calai.s 
knows  no  bounds.  Inwardly  I resolve  afresh  that  I never 
will  forgive  that  hated  town.  I have  done  so  before,  many 
times,  but  that  is  past.  Let  me  register  a vow.  Impla- 


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177 


able  animosity  to  Calais  everm that  was  an  awkward 

ea,  and  the  funnel  seems  of  my  opinion,  for  it  gives  a 
omplaining  roar. 

The  wind  blows  stiffly  from  the  Nor^East,  the  sea  runs 
igh,  we  ship  a deal  of  water,  the  night  is  dark  and  cold, 
nd  the  shapeless  passengers  lie  about  in  melancholy  bun- 
les,  as  if  they  were  sorted  out  for  the  laundress;  but  for 
ly  own  uncommercial  part  I cannot  pretend  that  I am 
inch  inconvenienced  by  any  of  these  things.  A general 
owling  whistling  flopping  gurgling  and  scooping,  I am 
ware  of,  and  a general  knocking  about  of  Nature;  but  the 
npressions  I receive  are  very  vague.  In  a sweet  faint 
3mper,  something  like  the  smell  of  damaged  oranges,  I 
link  I should  feel  languidly  benevolent  if  I had  time.  I 
ave  not  time,  because  I am  under  a curious  compulsion  to 
i3cupy  myself  with  the  Irish  melodies.  ‘‘  Eich  and  rare 
^ere  the  gems  she  wore,’^  is  the  particular  melody  to  which 
find  myself  devoted.  I sing  it  to  myself  in  the  most 
harming  manner  and  with  the  greatest  expression.  Now 
lid  then,  I raise  my  head  (I  am  sitting  on  the  hardest  of 
'et  seats,  in  the  most  uncomfortable  of  wet  attitudes,  but 
don’t  mind  it,)  and  notice  that  I am  a whirling  shuttle- 
ick  between  a fiery  battledore  of  a lighthouse  on  the 
reach  coast  and  a fiery  battledore  of  a lighthouse  on  the 
Inglish  coast;  but  I don’t  notice  it  particularly,  except  to 
3el  envenomed  in  my  hatred  of  Calais.  Then  I go  on 
^ain,  Rich  and  rare  were  the  ge-ems  she-e-e-e  wore.  And 
bright  gold  ring  on  her  wa-and  she  bo-ore.  But  0 her 
eauty  was  fa-a-a-a-r  beyond  ” — I am  particularly  proud  of 
ly  execution  here,  when  I become  aware  of  another  awk- 
ard  shock  from  the  sea,  and  another  protest  from  the  fun- 
el,  and  a fellow- creature  at  the  paddle-box  more  audibly 
idisposed  than  I think  he  need  be — Her  sparkling  gems, 
c snow-white  wand.  But  O her  beauty  was  fa-a-a-a-a-r 
eyond” — another  awkward  one  here^  and  the  fellow- 
feature  with  the  umbrella  down  and  picked  up,  ^‘Her 
la-a-rkling  ge-ems,  or  her  Port!  port!  steady!  steady! 
low- white  fellow-creature  at  the  paddle-box  very  selfishly 
idible,  bump  roar  wash  white  wand.” 

As  my  execution  of  the  Irish  melodies  partakes  of  my 
nperfect  perceptions  of  what  is  going  on  around  me,  so 
hat  is^  going  on  around  me  becomes  something  else  than 
hat  it  is.  The  stokers  open  the  furnace  doors  below,  to 
12 


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feed  the  fires,  and  I am  again  on  the  box  of  the  old  Exeter 
Telegraph  fast  coach,  and  that  is  the  light  of  the  for  ever 
extinguished  coach-lamps,  and  the  gleam  on  the  hatches 
and  paddle-boxes  is  their  gleam  on  cottages  and  haystacks, 
and  the  monotonous  noise  of  the  engines  is  the  steady  jin- 
gle of  the  splendid  team.  Anon,  the  intermittent  funnel 
roar  of  protest  at  every  violent  roll,  becomes  the  regular 
blast  of  a high  pressure  engine,  and  I recognise  the  ex- 
ceedingly explosive  steamer  in  which  I ascended  the  Mis- 
sissippi when  the  American  civil  war  was  not,  and  when 
only  its  causes  were.  A fragment  of  mast  on  which  the 
light  of  a lantern  falls,  an  end  of  rope,  and  a jerking  block 
or  so,  become  suggestive  of  Franconi’s  Circus  at  Paris  where 
I shall  be  this  very  night  mayhap  (for  it  must  be  morning 
now),  and  they  dance  to  the  self-same  time  and  tune  as  the 
trained  steed.  Black  Raven.  What  may  be  the  speciality 
of  these  waves  as  they  come  rushing  on,  I cannot  desert 
the  pressing  demands  made  upon  me  by  the  gems  she  wore, 
to  inquire,  but  they  are  charged  with  something  about 
Robinson  Crusoe,  and  I think  it  was  in  Yarmouth  Roads 
that  he  first  went  a sea  faring  and  was  near  foundering 
(what  a terrific  sound  that  word  had  for  me  when  I was  a 
boy !)  in  his  first  gale  of  wind.  Still,  through  all  this,  I 
must  ask  her  (who  iras  she  I wonder !)  for  the  fiftieth  time, 
and  without  ever  stopping,  Does  she  not  fear  to  stray.  So 
lone  and  lovely  through  this  bleak  way.  And  are  Erin’s- 
sons  so  good  or  so  cold,  As  not  to  be  tempted  by  more 
fellow-creatures  at  the  paddle-box  or  gold?  Sir  Knight  I 
feel  not  the  least  alarm,  No  son  of  Erin  will  offer  me  harm, 
For  though  they  love  fellow-creature  with  umbrella  down 
again  and  golden  store,  Sir  Knight  they  what  a tremendous 
one  love  honour  and  virtue  more:  For  though  they  love 
Stewards  with  a bull’s  eye  bright,  they’ll  trouble  you  for 
your  ticket,  sir — rough  passage  to-night ! 

I freely  admit  it  to  be  a miserable  piece  of  human  weak- 
ness and  inconsistency,  but  I no  sooner  become  conscious  of 
those  last  words  from  the  steward  than  I begin  to  softeiu 
towards  Calais.  Whereas  I have  been  vindictively  wish- 
ing that  those  Calais  burghers  who  came  out  of  their  town 
by  a short  cut  into  the  History  of  England,  with  those 
fatal  ropes  round  their  necks  by  which  they  have  since 
been  towed  into  so  many  cartoons,  had  all  been  hanged  on 
the  spot,  I now  begin  to  regard  them  as  highly  respectable 


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179 


and  virtuous  tradesmen.  Looking  about  me,  I see  the 
light  of  Cape  Grinez  well  astern  of  the  boat  on  the  davits 
to  leeward,  and  the  light  of  Calais  Harbour  undeniably  at 
its  old  tricks,  but  still  ahead  and  shining.  Sentiments  of 
forgiveness  of  Calais,  not  to  say  of  attachment  to  Calais, 
begin  to  expand  my  bosom.  I have  weak  notions  that  I 
will  stay  there  a day  or  two  on  my  way  back.  A faded 
and  recumbent  stranger  pausing  in  a profound  reverie  over 
the  rim  of  a basin,  asks  me  what  kind  of  place  Calais  is? 
I tell  him  (Heaven  forgive  me!)  a very  agreeable  place  in- 
deed— rather  hilly  than  otherwise. 

So  strangely  goes  the  time,  and  on  the  whole  so  quickly 
— though  still  I seem  to  have  been  on  board  a week — that 
I am  bumped  rolled  gurgled  washed  and  pitched  into  Calais 
Harbour  before  her  maiden  smile  has  finally  lighted  her 
through  the  Green  Isle,  W^hen  blest  for  ever  is  she  who  re- 
lied, On  entering  Calais  at  the  top  of  the  tide.  For  we 
have  not  to  land  to-night  down  among  those  slimy  timbers 
— covered  Avith  green  hair  as  if  it  were  the  mermaids^  fa- 
vourite combing-place — where  one  crawls  to  the  surface  of 
the  jetty,  like  a stranded  shrimp,  but  we  go  steaming  up 
the  harbour  to  the  Eailway  Station  Quay.  And  as  we  go, 
the  sea  washes  in  and  out  among  piles  and  planks,  with 
dead  heavy  beats  and  in  quite  a furious  manner  (whereof 
we  are  proud),  and  the  lamps  shake  in  the  wind,  and  the 
bells  of  Calais  striking  One  seem  to  send  their  vibrations 
struggling  against  troubled  air,  as  we  have  come  struggling 
against  troubled  water.  And  now,  in  the  sudden  relief 
and  wiping  of  faces,  everybody  on  board  seems  to  have 
had  a prodigious  double-tooth  out,  and  to  be  this  very 
instant  free  of  the  Dentist^s  hands.  And  now  we  all 
know  for  the  first  time  how  wet  and  cold  we  are,  and 
how  salt  we  are;  and  now  I love  Calais  with  my  heart  of 
hearts ! 

^‘Flotel  Dessin!^^  (but  in  this  one  case  it  is  not  a vocal 
cry;  it  is  but  a bright  lustre  in  the  eyes  of  the  cheery  rep- 
resentative of  that  best  of  inns).  ''  Hotel  Meurice  ! ''  “ Ho- 
tel de  France ! Hotel  de  Calais ! The  Royal  Hotel, 
Sir,  Angaishe  ouse!^^  You  going  to  Pany,  Sir?  ^ 

Four  baggage,  registair  froo.  Sir?  Bless  ye,  my  Toub- 
ers,  bless  ye,  my  commissionaires,  bless  ye,  my  hungrj- 
ejed  mysteries  in  caps  of  a military  form,  who  are  always 
here,  day  or  night,  fair  feather  or  foul,  seeking  inscrutable 


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THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


jobs  which  I never  see  you  get!  Bless  ye,  my  Custom 
House  officers  in  green  and  grey;  permit  me  to  grasp  the 
welcome  hands  that  descend  into  my  travelling-bag,  one  on 
each  side,  and  meet  at  /the  bottom  to  give  my  cliange  of 
linen  a peculiar  shake  up,  as  if  it  were  a measure  of  chaff 
or  grain!  I have  nothing  to  declare,  Monsieur  le  Doua- 
nier,  except  that  when  I cease  to  breathe,  Calais  will  be 
found  written  on  my  heart.  No  article  liable  to  local  duty 
have  I with  me,  Monsieur  B Officer  de  B Octroi,  unless  the 
overflowing  of  a breast  devoted  to  your  charming  town 
should  be  in  that  wise  chargeable.  Ah ! see  at  the  gang- 
way by  the  twinkling  lantern,  my  dearest  brother  and 
frjlend,  he  once  of  the  Passport  Office,  he  who  collects  the 
names!  May  he  be  for  ever  changeless  in  his  buttoned 
black  surtout,  with  his  note-book  in  his  hand,  and  his  tall 
black  hat,  surmounting  his  round  smiling  patient  face! 
Let  us  embrace,  my  dearest  brother.  I am  yours  a tout 
jamais-— for  the  whole  of  ever. 

Calais  up  and  doing  at  the  railway  station,  and  Calais 
down  and  dreaming  in  its  bed;  Calais  with  something  of 
‘^an  ancient  and  fish-like  smell about  it,  and  Calais  blown 
and  sea- washed  pure;  Calais  represented  at  the  Buffet  by 
savoury  roast  fowls,  hot  coffee,  cognac,  and  Bordeaux;  and 
Calais  represented  everywhere  by  flitting  persons  with  a 
monomania  for  changing  money — though  I never  shall  be 
able  to  understand  in  my  present  state  of  existence  how 
they  live  by  it,  but  I suppose  I should,  if  I understood  the 
currency  question — Calais  en  gros,  and  Calais  en  detail^  for- 
give one  who  has  deeply  wronged  you. — I was  not  fully 
aware  of  it  on  the  other  side,  but  I meant  Dover. 

Ding,  ding ! To  the  carriages,  gentlemen  the  travellers. 
Ascend  then,  gentlemen  the  travellers,  for  Hazebroucke, 
Lille,  Douai,  Bruxelles,  Arras,  Amiens,  and  Paris ! I,  hum- 
ble representative  of  the  uncommercial  interest,  ascend 
with  the  rest.  The  train  is  light  to-night,  and  I share  my 
compartment  with  but  two  fellow-travellers;  one,  a compa- 
triot in  an  obsolete  cravat,  who  thinks  it  a quite  unaccount- 
able thing  that  they  don’t  keep  ‘^London  time”  on  a 
French  railway,  and  who  is  made  angry  by  my  modestly 
suggesting  the  possibility  of  Paris  time  being  more  in  their 
way;  the  other,  a young  priest,  with  a very  small  bird  in 
a very  small  cage,  who  feeds  the  small  bird  with  a quill, 
and  then  puts  him  up  in  the  network  above  his  head,  where 


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181 


he  advances  twittering,  to  his  front  wires,  and  seems  to  ad- 
dress me  in  an  electioneering  manner.  The  compatriot 
(who  crossed  in  the  boat,  and  whom  I judge  to  be  some 
person  of  distinction,  as  he  was  shut  up,  like  a stately 
species  of  rabbit,  in  a private  hutch  on  deck)  and  the  young 
priest  (who  joined  us  at  Calais)  are  soon  asleep,  and  then 
the  bird  and  I have  it  all  to  ourselves. 

A stormy  night  still;  a night  that  sweeps  the  wires  of 
the  electric  telegraph  with  a wild  and  fitful  hand^a  night 
so  very  stormy,  with  the  added  storm  of  the  train-^rbgress 
through  it,  that  when  the  Guard  comes  clambering  round 
to  mark  the  tickets  while  we  are  at  full  speed  (a  really 
horrible  performance  in  an  express  train,  though  he  holds 
on  to  the  open  window  by  his  elbows  in  the  most  deliberate 
manner),  he  stands  in  such  a whirlwind  that  I grip  him  fast 
by  the  collar,  and  feel  it  next  to  manslaughter  to  let  him 
go.  Still,  when  he  is  gone,  the  small  small  bird  remains 
at  his  front  wires  feebly  twittering  to  me — twittering  and 
twittering,  until,  leaning  back  in  my  place  and  looking  at 
i him  in  drowsy  fascination,  I find  that  he  seems  to  jog  my 
memory  as  we  rush  along. 

Uncommercial  travels  (thus  the  small  bird)  have  lain  in 
their  idle  thriftless  way  through  all  this  range  of  swamp 
and  dyke,  as  through  many  other  odd  places;  and  about 
here,  as  you  very  well  know,  are  the  queer  old  stone  farm- 
houses, approached  by  drawbridges,  and  the  windmills 
that  you  get  at  by  boats.  Here,  are  the  lands  where  the 
women  hoe  and  dig,  paddling  canoe- wise  from  field  to  field, 
and  here  are  the  cabarets  and  other  peasant-houses  where 
the  stone  dove-cotes  in  the  littered  yards  are  as  strong  as 
warders^  towers  in  old  castles.  Here,  are  the  long  monoto- 
nous miles  of  canal,  with  the  great  Dutch-built  barges 
garishly  painted,  and  the  towing  girls,  sometimes  harnessed 
by  the  forehead,  sometimes  by  the  girdle  and  the  shoul- 
ders, not  a pleasant  sight  to  see.  Scattered  through  this 
country  are  mighty  works  of  Vauban,  whom  you  know 
about,  and  regiments  of  such  corporals  as  you  heard  of  once 
upon  a time,  and  many  a blue-eyed  Bebelle.  Through 
these  flat  districts,  in  the  shining  summer  days,  walk  those 
long  grotesque  files  of  young  novices  in  enormous  shovel 
hats,  whom  you  remember  blackening  the  ground  checkered 
by  the  avenues  of  leafy  trees.  And  now  that  Hazebroucke 
slumbers  certain  kilometres  ahead,  recall  the  summer  even- 


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THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


iiig  when  your  dusty  feet  strolling  up  from  the  station 
tended  hap-hazard  to  a Fair  there,  where  the  oldest  inhabi- 
tants were  circling  round  and  round  a barrel-organ  on 
hobby-horses,  with  the  greatest  gravity,  and  where  the 
principal  show  in  the  Fair  was  a Religious  Richardson’s — 
literally,,  on  its  own  announcement  in  great  letters.  Thea- 
tre Religieux.  In  which  improving  Temple,  the  dra- 
matic representation  was  of  all  the  interesting  events  in 
the  life  of  our  Lord,  from  the  Manger  to  the  Tomb;  ” the 
principal  female  character,  without  any  reservation  or  ex- 
ception, being  at  the  moment  of  your  arrival,  engaged  in 
trimming  the  external  Moderators  (as  it  was  growing  dusk), 
while  the  next  principal  female  character  took  the  money, 
and  the  Young  Saint  John  disported  himself  upside  down 
on  the  platform. 

Looking  up  at  this  point  to  confirm  the  small  small  bird 
in  every  particular  he  has  mentioned,  I find  he  has  ceased 
to  twitter,  and  has  put  his  head  under  his  wing.  There- 
fore, in  my  different  way  I follow  the  good  example. 


XIX. 

SOME  RECOLLECTIONS  OP  MORTALITY. 

I HAD  parted  from  the  small  bird  at  somewhere  about 
four  o’clock  in  the  morning,  when  he  had  got  out  at  Arras, 
and  had  been  received  by  two  shovel  hats  in  waiting  at  the 
station,  who  presented  an  appropriately  ornithological  and 
crow-like  appearance.  My  compatriot  and  I had  gone  on 
to  Paris;  my  compatriot  enlightening  me  occasionally  with 
a long  list  of  the  enormous  grievances  of  French  railway 
travelling : every  one  of  which,  as  I am  a sinner,  was  per- 
fectly new  to  me,  though  I have  as  much  experience  of 
French  railways  as  most  uncommercials.  I had  left  him 
at  the  terminus  (through  his  conviction,  against  all  expla- 
nation and  remonstrance,  that  his  baggage-ticket  was  his 
passenger-ticket),  insisting  in  a very  high  temper  to  the 
functionary  on  duty,  that  in  his  own  personal  identity  he 
was  four  packages  weighing  so  many  kilogrammes — as  if 
he  had  been  Cassim  Baba ! I had  bathed  and  breakfasted, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


183 


and  was  strolling  on  the  bright  quays.  The  subject  of  my 
meditations  was  the  question  whether  it  is  positively  in  the 
essence  and  nature  of  things,  as  a certain  school  of  Britons 
would  seem  to  think  it,  that  a Capital  must  be  ensnared 
and  enslaved  before  it  can  be  made  beautiful : when  I lifted 
up  my  eyes  and  found  that  my  feet,  straying  like  my  mind, 
had  brought  me  to  Notre-Dame. 

That  is  to  say,  Notre-Dame  was  before  me,  but  there 
was  a large  open  space  between  us.  A very  little  while 
gone,  I had  left  that  space  covered  with  buildings  densely 
crowded;  and  now  it  was  cleared  for  some  new  wonder  in 
the  way  of  public  Street,  Place,  Garden,  Fountain,  or  all 
four.  Only  the  obscene  little  Morgue,  slinking  on  the  brink 
of  the  river  and  soon  to  come  down,  was  left  there,  looking 
mortally  ashamed  of  itself,  and  supremely  wicked.  I had 
: but  glanced  at  this  old  acquaintance,  when  I beheld  an  airy 
procession  coming  round  in  front  of  Notre-Dame,  past  the 
, great  hospital.  It  had  something  of  a Masaniello  look,  with 
I fluttering  striped  curtains  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  it  came 
dancing  round  the  cathedral  in  the  liveliest  manner. 

I was  speculating  on  a marriage  in  Blouse-life,  or  a 
Christening,  or  some  other  domestic  festivity  which  I would 
see  out,  when  I found,  from  the  talk  of  a quick  rush  of 
Blouses  past  me,  that  it  was  a Body  coming  to  the  Morgue. 
Having  never  before  chanced  upon  this  initiation,  I consti- 
tuted myself  a Blouse  likewise,  and  ran  into  the  Morgue 
with  the  rest.  It  was  a very  muddy  day,  and  we  took  in 
a quantity  of  mire  with  us,  and  the  procession  coming  in 
upon  our  heels  brought  a quantity  more.  The  procession 
was  in  the  highest  spirits,  and  consisted  of  idlers  who  had 
come  with  the  curtained  litter  from  its  starting-place,  and 
of  all  the  reinforcements  it  had  picked  up  by  the  way.  It 
set  the  litter  down  .in  the  midst  of  the  Morgue^  and  then 
two  Custodians  proclaimed  aloud  that  we  were  all  ‘‘in- 
vited ’’  to  go  out.  This  invitation  was  rendered  the  more 
pressing,  if  not  the  more  flattering,  by  our  being  shoved 
out,  and  the  folding-gates  being  barred  upon  us. 

Those  who  have  never  seen  the  Morgue,  may  see  it  per- 
fectly, by  presenting  to  themselves  an  indifferently  paved 
coach-house  accessible  from  the  street  by  a pair  of  folding- 
gates;  on  the  left  of  the  coach-house,  occupying  its  width, 
any  large  London  tailor’s  or  linen-draper’s  plateglass 
window  reaching  to  the  ground;  within  the  window,  on 


184 


THE  UNOOMMEECIAL  TRAVELLER. 


two  rows  of  inelined  planes,  what  the  coach-house  has  to 
show;  hanging  above,  like  irregular  stalactites  from  the 
roof  of  a cave,  a quantity  of  clothes — the  clothes  of  the 
dead  and  buried  shows  of  the  coach-house. 

We  had  been  excited  in  the  highest  degree  by  seeing  the 
Custodians  pull  off  their  coats  and  tuck  up  their  shirt- 
sleeves, as  the  procession  came  along.  It  looked  so  inter- 
estingly like  business.  Shut  out  in  the  muddy  street,  we 
now  became  quite  ravenous  to  know  all  about  it.  Was  it 
river,  pistol,  knife,  love,  gambling,  robbery,  hatred,  how 
many  stabs,  how  many  bullets,  fresh  or  decomposed,  sui- 
cide or  murder?  All  wedged  together,  and  all  staring  at 
one  another  with  our  heads  thrust  forward,  we  propounded 
these  inquiries  and  a hundred  more  such.  Imperceptibly, 
it  came  to  be  known  that  Monsieur  the  tall  and  sallow  ma- 
son yonder,  was  acquainted  with  the  facts.  Would  Mon- 
sieur the  tall  and  sallow  mason,  surged  at  by  a new  wave 
of  us,  have  the  goodness  to  impart?  It  was  but  a poor  old 
man,  passing  along  the  street  under  one  of  the  new  build- 
ings, on  whom  a stone  had  fallen,  and  who  had  tumbled 
dead.  His  age?  Another  wave  surged  up  against  the  tall 
and  sallow  mason,  and  our  wave  swept  on  and  broke,  and 
he  was  any  age  from  sixty-five  to  ninety. 

An  old  man  was  not  much : moreover,  we  could  have 
wished  he  had  been  killed  by  human  agency — his  own,  or 
somebody  else’s : the  latter,  preferable — but  our  comfort 
was,  that  he  had  nothing  about  him  to  lead  to  his  identifi- 
cation, and  that  his  people  must  seek  him  here.  Perhaps 
they  were  waiting  dinner  for  him  even  now?  We  liked  that. 
Such  of  us  as  had  pocket-handkerchiefs  took  a slow  intense 
protracted  wipe  at  our  noses,  and  then  crammed  our  hand- 
kerchiefs into  the  breast  of  our  blouses.  Others  of  us  who 
had  no  handkerchiefs  administered  a similar  relief  to  our 
overwrought  minds,  by  means  of  prolonged  smears  or  wipes 
of  our  mouths  on  our  sleeves.  One  man  with  a gloomy 
malformation  of  brow — a homicidal  worker  in  white-lead, 
to  judge  from  his  blue  tone  of  colour,  and  a certain  flavour 
of  paralysis  pervading  him — got  his  coat-collar  between  his 
teeth,  and  bit  at  it  with  an  appetite.  Several  decent 
women  arrived  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  and  pre- 
pared to  launch  themselves  into  the  dismal  coach-house 
when  opportunity  should  come;  among  them,  a pretty 
young  mother,  pretending  to  bite  the  forefinger  of  her  baby 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


185 


boy,  kept  it  between  her  rosy  lips  that  it  might  be  handy  for 
guiding  to  point  at  the  show.  Meantime,  all  faces  were 
turned  towards  the  building,  and  we  men  waited  with  a 
fixed  and  stern  resolution : — for  the  most  part  with  folded 
arms.  Surely,  it  was  the  only  public  French  sight  these 
uncommercial  eyes  had  seen,  at  which  the  expectant  people 
did  not  form  en  queue.  But  there  was  no  such  order  of 
arrangement  here;  nothing  but  a general  determination  to 
make  a rush  for  it,  and  a disposition  to  object  to  some  boys 
who  had  mounted  on  the  two  stone  posts  by  the  hinges  of 
the  gates,  with  the  design  of  swooping  in  when  the  hinges 
should  turn. 

Now,  they  turned,  and  we  rushed ! Great  pressure,  and 
a scream  or  two  from  the  front.  Then  a laugh  or  two, 
some  expressions  of  disappointment,  and  a slackening  of 
the  pressure  and  subsidence  of  the  struggle. — Old  man  not 
there. 

^^But  what  would  you  have?  ’’  the  Custodian  reasonably 
argues,  as  he  looks  out  at  his  little  door.  Patience,  pa- 
tience! We  make  his  toilette,  gentlemen.  He  will  be  ex- 
posed presently.  It  is  necessary  to  proceed  according  to 
rule.  His  toilette  is  not  made  all  at  a blow.  He  will  be 
exposed  in  good  time,  gentlemen,  in  good  time.^^  And  so 
retires,  smoking,  with  a wave  of  his  sleeveless  arm  towards 
the  window,  importing,  Entertain  yourselves  in  the  mean- 
while with  the  other  curiosities.  Fortunately  the  Museum 
is  not  empty  to-day.^’ 

Who  would  have  thought  of  public  fickleness  even  at  the 
Morgue?  But  there  it  was,  on  that  occasion.  Three  lately 
popular  articles  that  had  been  attracting  greatly  when  the 
litter  was  first  descried  coming  dancing  round  the  corner 
by  the  great  cathedral,  were  so  completely  deposed  now^, 
that  nobody  save  two  little  girls  (one  showing  them  to  a 
doll)  would  look  at  them.  Yet  the  chief  of  the  three,  the 
article  in  the  front  row,  had  received  jagged  injury  of 
the  left  temple;  and  the  other  two  in  the  back  row,  the 
drowned  two  lying  side  by  side  with  their  heads  very 
slightly  turned  towards  each  other,  seemed  to  be  compar- 
ing notes  about  it.  Indeed,  those  two  of  the  back  row 
were  so  furtive  of  appearance,  and  so  (in  their  puffed  way) 
assassinatingly  knowing  as  to  the  one  of  the  front,  that  it 
was  hard  to  think  the  three  had  never  come  together  in 
their  lives,  and  were  only  chance  companions  after  death. 


186 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Whether  or  no  this  was  the  general,  as  it  was  the  uiicom- 
niercial,  fanc}^,  it  is  not  to  be  disputed  that  the  group  had 
drawn  exceedingly  within  ten  minutes.  Yet  now,  the  in- 
constant public  turned  its  back  upon  them,  and  even  leaned 
its  elbows  carelessly  against  the  bar  outside  the  window 
and  shook  off  the  mud  from  its  shoes,  and  also  lent  and 
borrowed  fire  for  pipes. 

Custodian  re-enters  from  his  door,  Again  once,  gentle- 
men,  you  are  invited ” No  further  invitation  neces- 

sary. Eeady  dash  into  the  street.  Toilette  finished.  Old 
man  coming  out. 

This  time,  the  interest  was  grown  too  hot  to  admit  of 
toleration  of  the  boys  on  the  stone  posts.  The  homicidal 
white-lead  worker  made  a pounce  upon  one  boy  who  was 
hoisting  himself  up,  and  brought  him  to  earth  amidst  gen- 
eral commendation.  Closely  stowed  as  we  were,  we  yet 
formed  into  groups— groups  of  conversation,  without  sepa- 
ration from  the  mass — to  discuss  the  old  man.  Eivals  of 
the  tall  and  sallow  mason  sprang  into  being,  and  here  again 
was  popular  inconstancy.  These  rivals  attracted  audi- 
ences, and  were  greedily  listened  to;  and  whereas  they  had 
derived  their  information  solely  from  the  tall  and  sallow 
one,  officious  members  of  the  crowd  now  sought  to  enlighten 
him  on  their  authority.  Changed  by  this  social  experience 
into  an  iron-visaged  and  inveterate  misanthrope,  the  mason 
glared  at  mankind,  and  evidently  cherished  in  his  breast 
the  wish  that  the  whole  of  the  present  company  could 
change  places  with  the  deceased  old  man.  And  now  lis- 
teners became  inattentive,  and  people  made  a start  forward 
at  a slight  sound,  and  an  unholy  fire  kindled  in  the  public 
eye,  and  those  next  the  gates  beat  at  them  impatiently,  as 
if  they  were  of  the  cannibal  species  and  hungry. 

Again  the  hinges  creaked,  and  we  rushed.  Disorderly 
pressure  for  some  time  ensued  before  the  uncommercial  unit 
got  figured  into  the  front  row  of  the  sum.  It  was  strange 
to  see  so  much  heat  and  uproar  seething  about  one  poor 
spare  white-haired  old  man,  quiet  for  evermore.  He  was 
calm  of  feature  and  undisfigured,  as  he  lay  on  his  back — 
having  been  struck  upon  the  hinder  part  of  the  head,  and 
thrown  forward — and  something  like  a tear  or  two  had 
started  from  the  closed  eyes,  and  lay  wet  upon  the  face. 
The  uncommercial  interest,  sated  at  a glance,  directed  it- 
self upon  the  striving  crowd  on  either  side  and  behind : 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


187 


wondering  whether  one  might  have  guessed,  from  the  ex- 
pression of  those  faces  merely,  what  kind  of  sight  they 
were  looking  at.  The  differences  of  expression  were  not 
many.  There  was  a little  pity,  but  not  much,  and  that 
mostly  with  a selff sh  touch  in  it — as  who  would  say,  Shall 
I,  poor  I,  look  like  that,  when  the  time  comes ! ’’  There 
was  more  of  a secretly  brooding  contemplation  and  curi- 
osity, as  ‘‘That  man  I don’t  like,  and  have  the  grudge 
against;  would  such  be  his  appearance,  if  some  one — not 
to  mention  names — by  any  chance  gave  him  an  ugly 
knock?  ” There  was  a wolfish  stare  at  the  object,  in  which 
the  homicidal  white-lead  worker  shone  conspicuous.  And 
there  was  a much  more  general,  purposeless,  vacant  staring 
at  it — like  looking  at  waxwork,  without  a catalogue,  and 
not  knowing  what  to  make  of  it.  But  all  these  expres- 
sions concurred  in  possessing  the  one  underlying  expression 
of  looking  at  something  that  could  not  return  a look.  The 
uncommercial  notice  had  established  this  as  very  remark- 
able, when  a new  pressure  all  at  once  coming  up  from  the 
street  pinioned  him  ignominiously,  and  hurried  him  into 
the  arms  (now  sleeved  again)  of  the  Custodian  smoking  at 
his  door,  and  answering  questions,  between-puffs,  with  a 
certain  placid  meritorious,  air  of  not  being  proud,  though 
high  in  office.  And  mentioning  pride,  it  may  be  observed, 
by  the  way,  that  one  could  not  well  help  investing  the 
original  sole  occupant  of  the  front  row  with  an  air  deprecia- 
tory of  the  legitimate  attraction  of  the  poor  old  man  : while 
the  two  in  the  second  row  seemed  to  exult  at  his  superseded 
popularity. 

Pacing  presently  round  the  garden  of  the  Tower  of  St. 
Jacques  de  la  Boucherie,  and  presently  again  in  front  of 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  I called  to  mind  a certain  desolate  open- 
air  Morgue  that  I happened  to  light  upon  in  London,  one 
day  in  the  hard  winter  of  1861,  and  which  seemed  as 
strange  to  me,  at  the  time  of  seeing  it,  as  if  I had  found  it 
in  China.  Towards  that  hour  of  a winter’s  afternoon  when 
the  lamplighters  are  beginning  to  light  the  lamps  in  the 
streets  a little  before  they  are  wanted,  because  the  dark- 
ness thickens  fast  and  soon,  I was  walking  in  from  the 
country  on  the  northern  side  of  the  Eegent’s  Park — hard^ 
frozen  and  deserted — when  I saw  an  empty  Hansom  cab 
drive  up  to  the  lodge  at  Gloucester-gate,  and  the  driver 
with  great  agitation  call  to  the  man  there : who  quickly 


188 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


reached  a long  pole  from  a tree,  and,  deftly  collared  by 
the  driver,  jumped  to  the  step  of  his  little  seat,  and  so  the 
Hansom  rattled  out  at  the  gate,  galloping  over  the  iron- 
bound  road.  I followed  running,  though  not  so  fast  but 
that  when  I came  to  the  right-hand  Canal  Bridge,  near  the 
cross-path  to  Chalk  Farm,  the  Hansom  was  stationary, 
the  horse  was  smoking  hot,  the  long  pole  was  idle  on  the 
ground,  and  the  driver  and  the  park-keeper  were  looking 
over  the  bridge  parapet.  Looking  over  too,  I saw,  lying 
on  the  towing-path  with  her  face  turned  up  towards  us,  a 
woman,  dead  a day  or  two,  and  under  thirty,  as  I guessed, 
poorly  dressed  in  black.  The  feet  were  lightly  crossed  at 
the  ankles,  and  the  dark  hair,  all  pushed  back  from  the 
face,  as  though  that  had  been  the  last  action  of  her  des- 
perate hands,  streamed  over  the  ground.  Dabbled  all 
about  her,  was  the  water  and  the  broken  ice  that  had 
dropped  from  her  dress,  and  had  splashed  as  she  was  got 
out.  The  policeman  who  had  just  got  her  out,  and  the 
passing  costermonger  who  had  helped  him,  were  standing 
near  the  body;  the  latter  with  that  stare  at  it  which  I have 
likened  to  being  at  a waxwork  exhibition  without  a cata- 
logue; the  former,  looking  over  his  stock,  with  profes- 
sional stiffness  and  coolness,  in  the  direction  in  which  the 
bearers  he  had  sent  for  were  expected.  So  dreadfully  for- 
lorn, so  dreadfully  sad,  so  dreadfully  mysterious,  this  spec- 
tacle of  our  dear  sister  here  departed ! A barge  came  up, 
breaking  the  floating  ice  and  the  silence,  and  a woman 
steered  it.  The  man  with  the  horse  that  towed  it,  cared 
so  little  for  the  body,  that  the  stumbling  hoofs  had  been 
among  the  hair,  and  the  tow-rope  had  caught  and  turned 
the  head,  before  our  cry  of  horror  took  him  to  the  bridle. 
At  which  sound  the  steering  woman  looked  up  at  us  on  the 
bridge,  with  contempt  unutterable,  and  then  looking  down 
at  the  body  with  a similar  expression — as  if  it  were  made 
in  another  likeness  from  herself,  had  been  informed  with 
other  passions,  had  been  lost  by  other  chances,  had  had 
another  nature  dragged  down  to  perdition — steered  a spurn- 
ing streak  of  mud  at  it,  and  passed  on. 

A better  experience,  but  also  of  the  Morgue  kind,  in 
which  chance  happily  made  me  useful  in  a slight  degree, 
arose  to  my  remembrance  as  I took  my  way  by  the  Boule- 
vard de  Sebastopol  to  the  brightest  scenes  of  Paris. 

The  thing  happened,  say  five-and-twenty  years  ago.  I 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


189 


was  a modest  young  uncommercial  then,  and  timid  and  in- 
experienced. Many  suns  and  winds  have  browned  me  in 
the  line,  but  those  were  my  pale  days.  Having  newly 
taken  the  lease  of  a house  in  a certain  distinguished  metro- 
politan parish — a house  which  then  appeared  to  me  to  be  a 
frightfully  first-class  Family  Mansion,  involving  awful  re- 
sponsibilities—I became  the  prey  of  a Beadle.  I think  the 
Beadle  must  have  seen  me  going  in  or  coming  out,  and 
must  have  observed  that  I tottered  under  the  weight  of  my 
grandeur.  Or  he  may  have  been  in  hiding  under  straw 
when  I bought  my  first  horse  (in  the  desirable  stable-yard 
attached  to  the  first-class  Family  Mansion),  and  when  the 
vendor  remarked  to  me,  in  an  original  manner,  on  bringing 
him  for  approval,  taking  his  cloth  off  and  smacking  him, 
“There  Sir!  There's  a Orse!”  And  when  I said  gal- 
lantly, “How  much  do  you  want  for  him?  ” and  when  the 
tvendor  said,  “No  more  than  sixty  guineas,  from  you,”  and 
when  I said  smartly,  “Why  not  more  than  sixty  from 
.me  ? ” And  when  he  said  crushingly,  “ Because  upon  my 
|soul  and  body  he’d  be  considered  cheap  at  seventy,  by  one 
who  understood  the  subject — but  you  don’t.” — I say,  the 
Beadle  may  have  been  in  hiding  under  straw,  when  this  dis- 
grace befell  me,  or  he  may  have  noted  that  I was  too  raw 
and  young  an  Atlas  to  carry  the  first-class  Family  Mansion 
■in  a knowing  manner.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  Beadle  did 
,what  Melancholy  did  to  the  youth  in  Gray’s  Elegy— he 
marked  me  for  his  own.  And  the  way  in  which  the  Beadle 
lid  it,  was  this : he  summoned  me  as  a Juryman  on  his 
Goroner’s  Inquests. 

■ In  my  first  feverish  alarm  I repaired  “ for  safety  and  for 
iuccour  ” — like  those  sagacious  Northern  shepherds  who, 
laving  had  no  previous  reason  whatever  to  believe  in  young 
!lorval,  very  prudently  did  not  originate  the  hazardous  idea 
f)f  believing  in  him— to  a deep  householder.  This  pro- 
ound  man  informed  me  that  the  Beadle  counted  on  my 
^mying  him  off;  on  my  bribing  him  not  to  summon  me; 
-nd  that  if  I would  attend  an  Inquest  with  a cheerful 
. ountenance,  and  profess  alacrity  in  that  branch  of  my 
oun try’s  service,  the  Beadle  would  be  disheartened,  and 
pould  give  up  the  game. 

I roused  my  energies,  and  the  next  time  the  wily  * 
leadle  summoned  me,  I went.  The  Beadle  was  the  blank- 
st  Beadle  I have  ever  looked  on  when  I answered  to  my 


190 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


name;  and  his  discomfiture  gave  me  courage  to  go  through 
with  it. 

We  were  impannelled  to  inquire  concerning  the  death  of 
a very  little  mite  of  a child.  It  was  the  old  miserable 
story.  Whether  the  mother  had  committed  the  minor 
offence  of  concealing  the  birth,  or  whether  she  had  com- 
mitted the  major  offence  of  killing  the  child,  was  the  ques- 
tion on  which  we  were  wanted.  We  must  commit  her  on 
one  of  the  two  issues. 

The  Inquest  came  off  in  the  parish  workhouse,  and  I 
have  yet  a lively  impression  that  I was  unanimously  re- 
ceived by  my  brother  Jurymen  as  a brother  of  the  utmost 
conceivable  insignificance.  Also,  that  before  we  began,  a 
broker  who  had  lately  cheated  me  fearfully  in  the  matter 
of  a pair  of  card-tables,  was  for  the  utmost  rigour  of  the 
law.  I remember  that  we  sat  in  a sort  of  board-room,  on 
such  very  large  square  horse-hair  chairs  that  I wondered 
what  race  of  Patagonians  they  were  made  for;  and  further, 
that  an  undertaker  gave  me  his  card  when  we  were  in  the 
full  moral  freshness  of  having  just  been  sworn,  as  an  in- 
habitant that  was  newly  come  into  the  parish,  and  was 
likely  to  have  a young  family.’^  The  case  was  then  stated 
to  us  by  the  Coroner,  and  then  we  went  down-stairs — led 
by  the  plotting  Beadle — to  view  the  body.  Prom  that  day 
to  this,  the  poor  little  figure,  on  which  that  sounding  legal 
appellation  was  bestowed,  has  lain  in  the  same  place  and 
with  the  same  surroundings,  to  my  thinking.  In  a kind  of 
crypt  devoted  to  the  warehousing  of  the  parochial  coffins, 
and  in  the  midst  of  a perfect  Panorama  of  coffins  of  all 
sizes,  it  was  stretched  on  a box;  the  mother  had  put  it  in 
hei-  box — this  box — almost  as  soon  as  it  was  born,  and  it 
had  been  presently  found  there.  It  had  been  opened,  and 
neatly  sewn  up,  and  regarded  from  that  point  of  view,  it 
looked  like  a stuffed  creature.  It  rested  on  a clean  white 
cloth,  with  a surgical  instrument  or  so  at  hand,  and  re- 
garded from  that  point  of  view,  it  looked  as  if  the  cloth 
were  ^4aid,”  and  the  Giant  were  coming  to  dinner.  There 
was  nothing  repellant  about  the  poor  piece  of  innocence, 
and  it  demanded  a mere  form  of  looking  at.  So,  we  looked 
at  an  old  pauper  who  was  going  about  among  the  coffins 
with  a foot  rule,  as  if  he  were  a case  of  Self-Measurement; 
and  we  looked  at  one  another;  and  we  said  the  place  was 
well  whitewashed  anyhow;  and  then  our  conversational 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


191 


powers  as  a British  Jury  flagged,  and  the  foreman  said, 
“All  right,  gentlemen?  Back  again,  Mr.  Beadle!’^ 

The  miserable  young  creature  who  had  given  birth  to  this 
child  within  a very  few  days,  and  who  had  cleaned  the  cold 
wet  door-steps  immediately  afterwards,  was  brought  before 
us  when  we  resumed  our  horse-hair  chairs,  and  was  present 
during  the  proceedings.  She  had  a horse-hair  chair  her- 
self, being  very  weak  and  ill;  and  I remember  how  she 
turned  to  the  unsympathetic  nurse  who  attended  her,  and 
who  might  have  been  the  figure-head  of  a pauper-ship,  and 
how  she  hid  her  face  and  sobs  and  tears  upon  that  wooden 
shoulder.  I remember,  too,  how  hard  her  mistress  was 
upon  her  (she  was  a servant-of-all-work),  and  with  what  a 
cruel  pertinacity  that  piece  of  Virtue  spun  her  thread  of 
evidence  double,  by  intertwisting  it  with  the  sternest  thread 
of  construction.  Smitten  hard  by  the  terrible  low  wail 
from  the  utterly  friendless  orphan  girl,  which  never  ceased 
during  the  whole  inquiry,  I took  heart  to  ask  this  witness 
a question  or  two,  which  hopefully  admitted  of  an  answer 
that  might  give  a favourable  turn  to  the  case.  She  made 
the  turn  as  little  favourable  as  it  could  be,  but  it  did  some 
good,  and  the  Coroner,  who  was  nobly  patient  and  humane 
(he  was  the  late  Mr.  Wakley),  cast  a look  of  strong  encour- 
agement in  my  direction.  Then,  we  had  the  doctor  who 
had  made  the  examination,  and  the  usual  tests  as  to 
whether  the  child  was  born  alive;  but  he  was  a timid 
muddle-headed  doctor,  and  got  confused  and  contradictory, 
and  wouldn^t  say  this,  and  couldn’t  answer  for  that,  and 
the  immaculate  broker  was  too  much  for  him,  and  our  side 
slid  back  again.  However,  I tried  again,  and  the  Coroner 
backed  me  again,  for  which  I ever  afterwards  felt  grateful 
to  him  as  I do  now  to  his  memory;  and  we  got  another 
favourable  turn,  out  of  some  other  witness,  some  member  of 
the  family  with  a strong  prepossession  against  the  sinner; 
and  I think  we  had  the  doctor  back  again;  and  I know  that 
the  Coroner  summed  up  for  our  side,  and  that  I and  my 
British  brothers  turned  round  to  discuss  our  verdict,  and 
get  ourselves  into  great  difficulties  with  our  large  chairs 
and  the  broker.  At  that  stage  of  the  case  I tried  hard 
again,  being  convinced  that  I had  cause  for  it;  and  at  last 
we  found  for  the  minor  offence  of  only  concealing  the  birth; 
and  the  poor  desolate  creature,  who  had  been  taken  out 
during  our  deliberation,  being  brought  in  again  to  be  told 


102 


THE  UNCOMMERCIxVL  TRAVELLER. 


of  the  verdict,  then  dropped  upon  her  knees  before  us,  with 
protestations  that  we  were  right — protestations  among  the 
most  affecting  that  I have  ever  heard  in  my  life — and  was 
caiTie(J  away  insensible. 

(In  private  conversation  after  this  was  all  over,  the  Cor- 
oner showed  me  his  reasons  as  a trained  surgeon,  for  per- 
ceiving it  to  be  impossible  that  the  child  could,  under  the 
most  favourable  circumstances,  have  drawn  many  breaths, 
in  the  very  doubtful  case  of  its  having  ever  breathed  at  all; 
this,  owing  to  the  discovery  of  some  foreign  matter  in  the 
windpipe,  quite  irreconcilable  with  many  moments  of  life.) 

When  the  agonised  girl  had  made  those  final  protesta- 
tions, I had  seen  her  face,  and  it  was  in  unison  with  her 
distracted  heart-broken  voice,  and  it  was  very  moving.  It 
certainly  did  not  impress  me  by  any  beauty  that  it  had, 
and  if  I ever  see  it  again  in  another  world  I shall  only 
know  it  by  the  help  of  some  new  sense  or  intelligence.  But 
it  came  to  me  in  my  sleep  that  night,  and  I selfishly  dis- 
missed it  in  the  most  efficient  way  I could  think  of.  I 
caused  some  extra  care  to  be  taken  of  her  in  the  prison, 
and  counsel  to  be  retained  for  her  defence  when  she  was 
tried  at  the  Old  Bailey;  and  her  sentence  was  lenient,  and 
her  history  and  conduct  proved  that  it  was  right.  In  doing 
the  little  I did  for  her,  I remember  to  have  had  the  kind 
help  of  some  gentle-hearted  functionary  to  whom  I ad- 
dressed myself — ^but  what  functionary  I have  long  forgot- 
ten— who  I suppose  was  officially  present  at  the  Inquest. 

I regard  this  as  a very  notable  uncommercial  experience, 
because  this  good  came  of  a Beadle.  And  to  the  best  of 
my  knowledge,  information,  and  belief,  it  is  the  only  good 
that  ever  did  come  of  a Beadle  since  the  first  Beadle  put 
on  his  cocked-hat. 


XX. 

BIRTH-DAY  CELEBRATIONS. 

It  came  into  my  mind  that  I would  recall  in  these  note® 
a few  of  the  many  hostelries  I have  rested  at  in  the  course 
of  my  journeys;  and,  indeed,  I had  taken  up  my  pen  for 
the  purpose,  when  I was  baffled  by  an  accidental  circum- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


193 


stance.  It  was  the  having  to  leave  off,  to  wish  the  owner 
of  a certain  bright  face  that  looked  in  at  my  door,  many 
happy  returns  of  the  day.^^  Thereupon  a new  thought 
came  into  my  mind,  driving  its  predecessor  out,  and  I be- 
gan to  recall — instead  of  Inns — the  birthdays  that  I have 
put  up  at,  on  my  way  to  this  present  sheet  of  paper. 

I can  very  well  remember  being  taken  out  to  visit  some 
peach-faced  creature  in  a blue  sash,  and  shoes  to  corre- 
spond, whose  life  I supposed  to  consist  entirely  of  birth- 
days. Upon  seed-cake,  sweet  wine,  and  shining  presents, 
that  glorified  young  person  seemed  to  me  to  be  exclusively 
reared.  At  so  early  a stage  of  my  travels  did  I assist  at 
the  anniversary  of  her  nativity  (and  become  enamoured  of 
her),  that  I had  not  yet  acquired  the  recondite  knowledge 
that  a birthday  is  the  common  property  of  all  who  are  born, 
but  supposed  it  to  be  a special  gift  bestowed  by  the  favour- 
ing Heavens  on  that  one  distinguished  infant.  There  was 
no  other  company,  and  we  sat  in  a shady  bower — under  a 
table,  as  my  better  (or  worse)  knowledge  leads  me  to  be- 
lieve— and  were  regaled  with  saccharine  substances  and 
liquids,  until  it  was  time  to  part.  A bitter  powder  was 
administered  to  me  next  morning,  and  I was  wretched. 
On  the  whole,  a*  pretty  accurate  foreshadowing  of  my  more 
mature  experiences  in  such  wise ! 

Then  came  the  time  when,  inseparable  from  one’s  own 
birthday,  was  a certain  sense  of  merit,  a consciousness  of 
well-earned  distinction.  When  I regarded  my  birthday  as 
a graceful  achievement  of  my  own,  a monument  of  my 
perseverance,  independence,  and  good  sense,  redounding 
greatly  to  my  honour.  This  was  at  about  the  period  when 
Olympia  Squires  became  involved  in  the  anniversary. 
Olympia  was  most  beautiful  (of  course),  and  I loved  her  to 
that  degree,  that  I used  to  be  obliged  to  get  out  of  my  lit- 
tle bed  in  the  night,  expessly  to  exclaim  to  Solitude,  ^^0, 
Olympia  Squires ! ” Visions  of  Olympia,  clothed  entirely 
in  sage-green,  from  which  I infer  a defectively  educated 
taste  on  the  part  of  her  respected  parents,  who  were  neces- 
sarily unacquainted  with  the  South  Kensington  Museum, 
still  arise  before  me.  Truth  is  sacred,  and  the  visions  are 
crowned  by  a shining  white  beaver  bonnet,  impossibly  sug- 
gestive of  a little  feminine  postboy.  My  memory  presents 
a birthday  when  Olympia  and  I were  taken  by  an  unfeeling 
relative — some  cruel  uncle,  or  the  like — to  a slow  torture 
13 


194  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

called  an  Orrery.  The  terrible  instrument  was  set  up  at 
the  local  Theatre,  and  I had  expressed  a profane  wish  in 
the  morning  that  it  was  a Play : for  which  a serious  aunt 
had  probed  my  conscience  deep,  and  my  pocket  deeper,  by 
reclaiming  a bestowed  half-crown.  It  was  a venerable  and 
a shabby  Orrery,  at  least  one  thousand  stars  and  twenty- 
five  comets  behind  the  age.  Nevertheless,  it  was  awful. 
When  the  low-spirited  gentleman  with  a wand  said,  “ La- 
dies and  gentlemen  ” (meaning  particularly  Olympia  and 
me),  “ the  lights  are  about  to  be  put  out,  but  there  is  not 
the  slightest  cause  for  alarm,”  it  was  very  alarming.  Then 
the  planets  and  stars  began.  Sometimes  they  wouldn’t 
come  on,  sometimes  they  wouldn’t  go  off,  sometimes  they 
had  holes  in  them,  and  mostly  they  didn’t  seem  to  be  good 
likenesses.  All  this  time  the  gentleman  with  the  wand 
was  going  on  in  the  dark  (tapping  away  at  the  heavenly 
bodies  between  whiles,  like  a wearisome  woodpecker), 
about  a sphere  revolving  on  its  own  axis  eight  hundred  and 
ninety-seven  thousand  millions  of  times — or  miles — in  two 
hundred  and  sixty-three  thousand  five  hundred  and  twenty- 
four  millions  of  something  elses,  until  I thought  if  this  was 
a birthday  it  were  better  never  to  have  been  born.  Olym- 
pia, also,  became  much  depressed,  and  we  both  slumbered 
and  woke  cross,  and  still  the  gentleman  was  going  on  in  the 
dark — whether  up  in  the  stars,  or  down  on  the  stage,  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  make  out,  if  it  had  been  worth  try- 
ing-cyphering away  about  planes  of  orbits,  to  such  an  in- 
famous extent  that  Olympia,  stung  to  madness,  actually 
kicked  me.  A pretty  birthday  spectacle,  when  the  lights 
were  turned  up  again,  and  all  the  schools  in  the  town  (in- 
clnding  the  National,  who  had  come  in  for  nothing,  and 
serve  them  right,  for  they  were  always  throwing  stones) 
were  discovered  with  exhausted  countenances,  screwing 
their  knuckles  into  their  eyes,  or  clutching  their  heads  of 
hair.  A pretty  birthday  speech  when  Dr.  Sleek  of  the 
City- Free  bobbed  up  his  powdered  head  in  the  stage-box, 
and  said  that  before  this  assembly  dispersed  he  really  must 
beg  to  express  his  entire  approval  of  a lecture  as  improv- 
ing, as  informing,  as  devoid  of  anything  that  could  call  a 
blush  into  the  cheek  of  youth,  as  any  it  had  ever  been  lii  i 
lot  to  hear  delivered.  A pretty  birthday  altogether,  when 
Astronomy  couldn’t  leave  poor  Small  Olympia  Squires  and 
me  alone,  but  must  put  an  end  to  our  loves ! For,  we  never 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


196 


got  over  it;  the  threadbare  Orrery  outwore  our  mutual  ten- 
derness; the  man  with  the  wand  was  too  much  for  the  boy 
with  the  bow. 

When  shall  I disconnect  the  combined  smells  of  oranges, 
brown  paper,  and  straw,  from  those  other  birthdays  at 
school,  when  the  coming  hamper  casts  its  shadow  before, 
and  when  a week  of  social  harmony — shall  I add  of  admir- 
ing and  affectionate  popularity — led  up  to  that  Institution? 
What  noble  sentiments  were  expressed  to  me  in  the  days 
before  the  hamper,  what  vows  of  friendship  were  sworn  to 
me,  what  exceedingly  old  knives  were  given  me,  what  gen- 
erous avowals  of  having  been  in  the  wrong  emanated  from 
else  obstinate  spirits  once  enrolled  among  my  enemies! 
The  birthday  of  the  potted  game  and  guava  jelly,  is  still 
made  special  to  me  by  the  noble  conduct  of  Bully  Globson. 
Letters  from  home  had  mysteriously  inquired  whether  I 
should  be  much  surprised  and  disappointed  if  among  the 
treasures  in  the  coming  hamper  I discovered  potted  game, 

, and  guava  jelly  from  the  Western  Indies.  I had  men- 
tioned those  hints  in  confidence  to  a few  friends,  and  had 
promised  to  give  away,  as  I now  see  reason  to  believe,  a 
handsome  covey  of  partridges  potted,  and  about  a hundred 
weight  of  guava  jelly.  It  was  now  that  Globson,  Bully  no 
more,  sought  me  out  in  the  playground.  He  was  a big  fat 
boy,  with  a big  fat  head  and  a big  fat  fist,  and  at  the  be- 
ginning of  that  Half  had  raised  such  a bump  on  my  fore- 
head that  I couldn’t  get  my  hat  of  state  on,  to  go  to  church. 
He  said  that  after  an  interval  of  cool  reflection  (four 
months)  he  now  felt  this  blow  to  have  been  an  error  of 
judgment,  and  that  he  wished  to  apologise  for  the  same. 
Not  only  that,  but  holding  down  his  big  head  between  his 
two  big  hands  in  order  that  I might  reach  it  conveniently, 
he  requested  me,  as  an  act  of  justice  which  would  appease 
his  awakened  conscience,  to  raise  a retributive  bump  upon 
it,  in  the  presence  of  witnesses.  This  handsome  proposal 
[ modestly  declined,  and  he  then  embraced  me,  and  we 
walked  away  conversing.  We  conversed  respecting  the 
West  India  islands,  and,  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  he 
asked  me  with  much  interest  whether  in  the  course  of  my 
reading  I had  met  with  any  reliable  description  of  the 
mode  of  manufacturing  guava  jelly;  or  whether  I had  ever 
' happened  to  taste  that  conserve,  which  he  had  been  given 
to  understand  was  of  rare  excellence. 


J96 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

Seventeen,  eighteen,  nineteen,  twenty;  and  then  with 
the  wandering  months  came  an  ever  augmenting  sense  of 
the  dignity  of  twenty-one.  Heaven  knows  I had  nothing 
to  “come  into,”  save  the  bare  birthday,  and  yet  I esteemed 
It  as  a great  possession.  I now  and  then  paved  the  way  to 
my  state  of  dignity,  by  beginning  a proposition  with  the 
casual  words,  “ say  that  a man  of  twenty-one,”  or  by  the 
incidental  assumption  of  a fact  that  could  not  sanely  be 
disputed,  as,  “for  when  a fellow  comes  to  be  a man  of 
twenty-one.”  I gave  a party  on  the  occasion.  She  was 
there.  It  is  unnecessary  to  name  Her,  more  particularly; 
She  was  older  than  I,  and  had  pervaded  every  chink  and 
crevice  of  my  mind  for  three  or  four  years.  I had  held 
volumes  of  Imaginary  Conversations  with  her  mother  on 
the  subject  of  our  union,  and  I had  written  letters  more  in 
number  than  Horace  Walpole’s,  to  that  discreet  woman, 
soliciting  her  daughter’s  hand  in  marriage.  I had  never 
had  the  remotest  intention  of  sending  any  of  those  letters; 
but  to  write  them,  and  after  a few  days  tear  them  up,  had 
been  a sublime  occupation.  Sometimes,  I had  begun 
“ Honoured  Madam.  I think  that  a lady  gifted  with  those 
powers  of  observation  which  I know  you  to  possess,  and 
endowed  with  those  womanly  sympathies  with  the  young 
and  ardent  which  it  were  more  than  heresy  to  doubt,  can 
scarcely  have  failed  to  discover  that  I love  your  adorable 
daughter,  deeply,  devotedly.”  In  less  buoyant  states  of 
mind  I had  begun,  “Bear  with  me.  Dear  Madam,  bear  with 
a^  daring  wretch  who  is  about  to  make  a surprising  confes- 
sion to  you,  wholly  unanticipated  by  yourself,  and  which 
he  beseeches  you  to  commit  to  the  flames  as  soon  as  you 
have  become  aware  to  what  a towering  height  his  mad  am- 
bition soars.  ” At  other  times — periods  of  profound  mental 
depression,  when  She  had  gone  out  to  balls  where  I was 
not — the  draft  took  the  affecting  form  of  a paper  to  be  left 
on  my  table  after  my  departure  to  the  confines  of  the  globe. 
As  thus:  “For  Mrs.  Onowenever,  these  lines  when  the 

hand  that  traces  them  shall  be  far  away.  I could  not  bear 
the  daily  torture  of  hopelessly  loving  the  dear  one  whom  I 
will  not  name.  Broiling  on  the  coast  of  Africa,  or  congeal- 
ing on  the  shores  of  Greenland,  I am  far  far  better  there 
than  here.”  (In  this  sentiment  my  cooler  judgment  per- 
ceives that  the  family  of  the  beloved  object  would  have 
most  completely  concurred.)  “If  I ever  emerge  from  oh- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


197 


scurity,  and  my  name  is  ever  heralded  by  Fame,  it  will  be 
for  her  dear  sake.  If  I ever  amass  Gold,  it  will  be  to  pour 
it  at  her  feet.  Should  I on  the  other  hand  become  the  prey 

of  Ravens ” I doubt  if  I ever  quite  made  up  my 

mind  what  was  to  be  done  in  that  affecting  case;  I tried 
^‘then  it  is  better  so; but  not  feeling  convinced  that  it 
would  be  better  so,  I vacillated  between  leaving  all  else 
blank,  which  looked  expressive  and  bleak,  or  winding  up 
with  Farewell ! ” 

This  fictitious  correspondence  of  mine  is  to  blame  for 
the  foregoing  digression.  I was  about  to  pursue  the  state- 
ment that  on  my  twenty-first  birthday  I gave  a party,  and 
She  was  there.  It  was  a beautiful  party.  There  was  not 
a single  animate  or  inanimate  object  connected  with  it  (ex- 
cept the  company  and  myself)  that  I had  ever  seen  before. 
Everything  was  hired,  and  the  mercenaries  in  attendance 
were  profound  strangers  to  me.  Behind  a door,  in  the 
crumby  part  of  the  night  when  wine-glasses  were  to  be 
found  in  unexpected  spots,  I spoke  to  Her — spoke  out  to 
Her.  What  passed,  I cannot  as  a man  of  honour  reveal. 
She  was  all  angelical  gentleness,  but  a word  was  mentioned 
— a short  and  dreadful  word  of  three  letters,  beginning 
with  a B — which,  as  I remarked  at  the  moment,  scorched 
my  brain. She  went  away  soon  afterwards,  and  when  the 
hollow  throng  (though  to  be  sure  it  was  no  fault  of  theirs) 
dispersed,  I issued  forth,  with  a dissipated  scorner,  and,  as 
I mentioned  expressly  to  him,  sought  oblivion.”  It  was 
found,  with  a dreadful  headache  in  it,  but  it  didn’t  last ; 
for,  in  the  shaming  light  of  next  day’s  noon,  I raised  my 
heavy  head  in  bed,  looking  back  to  the  birthdays  behind 
me,  and  tracking  the  circle  by  which  I had  got  round,  after 
all,  to  the  bitter  powder  and  the  wretchedness  again. 

This  reactionary  powder  (taken  so  largely  by  the  human 
race  that  I am  inclined  to  regard  it  as  the  Universal  Medi- 
cine once  sought  for  in  Laboratories)  is  capable  of  being 
made  up  in  another  form  for  birthday  use.  Anybody’s 
long-lost  brother  will  do  ill  to  turn  up  on  a birthday.  If  I 
had  a long-lost  brother  I should  know  beforehand  that  he 
would  prove  a tremendous  fraternal  failure  if  he  appointed 
to  rush  into  my  arms  on  my  birthday.  The  first  Magic 
Lantern  I ever  saw,  was  secretly  and  elaborately  planned 
to  be  the  great  effect  of  a very  juvenile  birthday;  but  it 
wouldn’t  act,  and  its  images  were  dim.  My  experience 


198 


THE  UNCOMMERCJIAL  TRAVELLER. 


of  adult  birthday  Magic  Lanterns  may  possibly  have  been 
unfortunate,  but  has  certainly  been  similar.  I have  an 
illustrative  birthday  in  my  eye : a birthday  of  my  friend 
Flipfield,  whose  birthdays  had  long  been  remarkable  as 
social  successes.  There  had  been  nothing  set  or  formal 
about  them;  Flipfield  having  been  accustomed  merely  to 
say,  two  or  three  days  before,  Don’t  forget  to  come  and 
dine,  old  boy,  according  to  custom;  ” — I don’t  know  what 
he  said  to  the  ladies  he  invited,  but  I may  safely  assume 
it  not  to  have  been  ^^old  girl.”  Those  were  delightful 
gatherings,  and  were  enjoyed  l>y  all  participators.  In  an 
evil  hour,  a long-lost  brother  of  Flipfield’ s came  to  light  in 
foreign  parts.  V7here  he  had  been  hidden,  or  what  he  had 
been  doing,  I don’t  know,  for  Flipfield  vaguely  informed 
me  that  he  had  turned  up  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges  ” 
— speaking  of  him  as  if  he  had  been  washed  ashore.  The 
Long-lost  was  coming  home,  and  Flipfield  made  an  unfortu- 
nate calculation,  based  on  the  well-known  regularity  of  the 
P.  and  O.  Steamers,  that  matters  might  be  so  contrived  as 
that  the  Long-lost  should  appear  in  the  nick  of  time  on  his 
(Flipfield’s)  birthday.  Delicacy  commanded  that  I should 
repress  the  gloomy  anticipations  with  which  my  soul  be- 
came fraught  when  I heard  of  this  plan.  The  fatal  day 
arrived,  and  we  assembled  in  force.  Mrs.  Flipfield  senior 
formed  an  interesting  feature  in  the  group,  with  a blue- 
veined  miniature  of  the  late  Mr.  Flipfield  round  her  neck, 
in  an  oval,  resembling  a tart  from  the  pastrycook’s:  his 
hair  powdered,  and  the  bright  buttons  on  his  coat,  evi- 
dently very  like.  She  was  accompanied  by  Miss  Flipfield, 
the  eldest  of  her  numerous  family,  who  held  her  pocket- 
handkerchief  to  her  bosom  in  a majestic  manner,  and  spoke 
to  all  of  us  (none  of  us  had  ever  seen  her  before),  in  pious 
and  condoning  tones,  of  all  the  quarrels  that  had  taken 
place  in  the  family,  from  her  infancy — which  must  have 
been  a long  time  ago — down  to  that  hour.  The  Long-lost 
did  not  appear.  Dinner,  half  an  hour  later  than  usual, 
was  announced,  and  still  no  Long-lost.  We  sat  down  to 
table.  The  knife  and  fork  of  the  Long-lost  made  a vacuum 
in  Nature,  and  when  the  champagne  came  round  for  the 
first  time,  Flipfield  gave  him  up  for  the  day,  and  had  them 
removed.  It  was  then  that  the  Long-lost  gained  the  height 
of  his  popularity  with  the  company;  for  my  own  part,  I 
felt  convinced  that  I loved  him  dearly.  Flipfield’s  dinners 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


199 


are  perfect,  and  he  is  the  easiest  and  best  of  entertainers. 
Dinner  went  on  brilliantly,  and  the  more  the  Long-lost 
didn’t  come,  the  more  comfortable  we  grew,  and  the  more 
highly  we  thought  of  him.  Elipfield’s  own  man  (who  has 
a regard  for  me)  was  in  the  act  of  struggling  with  an  igno- 
rant stipendiary,  to  wrest  from  him  the  wooden  leg  of  a 
Guinea-fowl  which  he  was  pressing  on  my  acceptance,  and 
to  substitute  a slice  of  the  breast,  when  a ringing  at  the 
door-bell  suspended  the  strife.  I looked  round  me,  and 
perceived  the  sudden  pallor  which  I knew  my  own  visage 
revealed,  reflected  in  the  faces  of  the  company.  Flipfield 
hurriedly  excused  himself,  went  out,  was  absent  for  about 
a minute  or  two,  and  then  re-entered  with  the  Long-lost. 

I beg  to  say  distinctly  that  if  the  stranger  had  brought 
Mont  Blanc  with  him,  or  had  come  - attended  by  a retinue 
of  eternal  snows,  he  could  not  liave  chilled  the  circle  to 
the  marrow  in  a more  efflcient  manner.  Embodied  Failure 
sat  enthroned  upon  the  Long-lost’s  brow,  and  pervaded  him 
to  his  Long-lost  boots.  In  vain  Mrs.  Flipfield  senior, 
opening  her  arms,  exclaimed,  My  Tom ! ” and  pressed  his 
nose  against  the  counterfeit  presentment  of  his  other  par- 
ent. In  vain  Miss  Flipfield,  in  the  first  transports  of  this 
reunion,  showed  him  a dint  upon  her  maidenly  cheek,  and 
asked  him  if  he  remembered  when  he  did  that  with  the 
bellows?  We,  the  bystanders,  were  overcome,  but  over- 
come by  the  palpable,  undisguisable,  utter,  and  total  break- 
down of  the  Long-lost.  Nothing  he  could  have  done  would 
have  set  him  right  with  us  but  his  instant  return  to  the 
Ganges.  In  the  very  same  m.oments  it  became  established 
that  the  feeling  was  reciprocal ^ and  that  the  Long-lost  de- 
tested us.  When  a friend  of  e family  (not  myself,  upon 
my  honour),  wishing  to  set  thxi.gs  going  again,  asked  him, 
while  he  partook  of  soup — aske«:  him  with  an  amiability  of 
intention  beyond  all  praise,  but  with  a weakness  of  execu- 
tion open  to  defeat — what  kind  of  river  he  considered  the 
Ganges,  the  Long-lost,  scowling  at  the  friend  of  the  family 
over  his  spoon,  as  one  of  an  abhorrent  race,  replied,  Why 
a river  of  water,  I suppose,”  and  spooned  his  soup  into 
himself  with  a malignancy  of  hand  and  eye  that  blighted 
the  amiable  questioner.  Not  nn  opinion  could  be  elicited 
from  the  Long-lost.,  in  unison  with  the  sentiments  of  any 
individual  present.  He  contradicted  Flipfield  dead,  before 
he  had  eaten  his  salmon.  He  had  no  idea — or  affected  to 


200  the  uncommercial  traveller. 

have  no  idea — that  it  was  his  brother’s  birthday,  and  on 
the  communication  of  that  interesting  fact  to  him,  merely 
wanted  to  make  him  out  four  years  older  than  he  was.  He 
was  an  antipathetical  being,  with  a peculiar  power  and  gift 
of  treading  on  everybody’s  tenderest  place.  They  talk  in 
America  of  a man’s  “Platform.”  I should  describe  the 
Platform  of  the  Long-lost  as  a Platform  composed  of  other 
people’s  corns,  on  which  he  had  stumped  his  way,  with  all 
his  might  and  main,  to  his  present  position.  It  is  need- 
less to  add  that  Flipfield’s  great  birthday  went  by  the 
board,  and  that  he  was  a wreck  when  I pretended  at  part- 
ing to  wish  him  many  happy  returns  of  it. 

There  is  another  class  of  birthdays  at  which  I have  so 
frequently  assisted,  that  I may  assume  such  birthdays  to 
be  pretty  well  known  to  the  human  race.  My  friend  May- 
day’s birthday  is  an  example.  The  guests  have  no  knowl- 
edge of  one  another  except  on  that  one  day  in  the  year, 
and  p-e  annually  terrified  for  a week  by  the  prospect  of 
meeting  one  another  again.  There  is  a fiction  among  us 
that  we  have  uncommon  reasons  for  being  particularly  lively 
and  spirited  on  the  occasion,  whereas  deep  despondency  is 
no  phrase  for  the  expression  of  our  feelings.  But  the  won- 
derful feature  of  the  case  is,  that  we  are  in  tacit  accordance 
to  avoid  the  subject— to  keep  it  as  far  off  as  possible,  as 
long  as  possible — and  to  talk  about  anything  else,  rather 
than  the  joyful  event.  I may  even  go  so  far  as  to  assert 
that  there  is  a dumb  compact  among  us  that  we  will  pretend 
that  it  is  NOT  Mayday’s  birthday.  A mysterious  and 
gloomy  Being,  who  is  said  to  have  gone  to  school  with 
Mayday,  and  who  is  so  lank  and  lean  that  he  seriously  im- 
pugns the  Dietary  of  the  establishment  at  which  they  were 
jointly  educated,  always  leads  us,  as  I may  say,  to  the 
block,  by  laying  his  grisly  hand  on  a decanter  and  begging 
us  to  fill  our  glasses.  The  devices  and  pretences  that  I 
have  seen  put  in  practice  to  defer  the  fatal  moment,  and  to 
interpose  between  this  man  and  his  purpose,  are  innumera- 
ble. I have  known  desperate  guests,  when  they  saw  the 
grisly  hand  approaching  the  decanter,  wildly  to  begin, 
without  any  antecedent  whatsoever,  “That  reminds  me 

” and  to  plunge  into  long  stories.  When  at  last  the 

hand  and  the  decanter  come  together,  a shudder,  a palpable 
perceptible  shudder,  goes  round  the  table.  We  receive  the 
reminder  that  it  is  Mayday’s  birthday,  as  if  it  were  the 


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201 


anniversary  of  some  profound  disgrace  he  had  undergone, 
and  we  sought  to  comfort  him.  And  when  we  have  drunk 
Mayday ^s  health,  and  wished  him  many  happy  returns,  we 
are  seized  for  some  moments  with  a ghastly  blitheness,  an 
unnatural  levity,  as  if  we  were  in  the  first  flushed  reaction 
of  having  undergone  a surgical  operation. 

Birthdays  of  this  species  have  a public  as  well  as  a pri- 
vate phase.  My  boyhood’s  home,”  Dullborough,  pre- 
sents a case  in  point.  An  Immortal  Somebody  was  wanted 
in  Dullborough,  to  dimple  for  a day  the  stagnant  face  of 
the  waters;  he  was  rather  wanted  by  Dullborough  gener- 
ally, and  much  wanted  by  the  principal  hotel-keeper.  The 
County  history  was  looked  up  for  a locally  Immortal  Some- 
body, but  the  registered  Dullborough  worthies  were  all 
Nobodies.  In  this  state  of  things,  it  is  hardly  necessary 
to  record  that  Dullborough  did  what  every  man  does  when 
he  wants  to  write  a book  or  deliver  a lecture,  and  is  pro- 
vided with  all  the  materials  except  a subject.  It  fell  back 
upon  Shakespeare. 

No  sooner  was  it  resolved  to  celebrate  Shakespeare’s 
birthday  in  Dullborough,  than  the  popularity  of  the  im- 
mortal bard  became  surprising.  You  might  have  supposed 
the  first  edition  of  his  works  to  have  been  published  last 
week,  and  enthusiastic  Dullborough  to  have  got  half 
through  them.  (I  doubt,  by  the  way,  whether  it  had  ever 
done  half  that,  but  this  is  a private  opinion.)  A young 
gentleman  with  a sonnet,  the  retention  of  which  for  two 
years  had  enfeebled  his  mind  and  undermined  his  knees, 
got  the  sonnet  into  the  Dullborough  Warden,  and  gained 
flesh.  Portraits  of  Shakespeare  broke  out  in  the  bookshop 
windows,  and  our  principal  artist  painted  a large  original 
portrait  in  oils  for  the  decoration  of  the  dining-room.  It 
was  not  in  the  least  like  any  of  the  other  portraits,  and 
was  exceedingly  admired,  the  head  being  much  swollen. 
At  the  Institution,  the  Debating  Society  discussed  the  new 
question.  Was  there  sufficient  ground  for  supposing  that 
the  Immortal  Shakespeare  ever  stole  deer?  This  was  in- 
dignantly decided  by  an  overwhelming  majority  in  the 
negative;  indeed,  there  was  but  one  vote  on  the  Poaching 
side,  and  that  was  the  vote  of  the  orator  who  had  under- 
taken to  advocate  it,  and  who  became  quite  an  obnoxious 
character — particularly  to  the  Dullborough  roughs,”  who 
were  about  as  well  informed  on  the  matter  as  most  other 


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THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


people.  Distinguished  speakers  were  invited  down,  and 
very  nearly  came  (but  not  quite).  Subscriptions  were 
opened,  and  committees  sat,  and  it  would  have  been  far 
from  a popular  measure  in  the  height  of  the  excitement,  to 
have  told  Dullborough  that  it  wasn’t  Stratford-upon-Avon. 
Yet,  after  all  these  preparations,  when  the  great  festivity 
took  place,  and  the  portrait,  elevated  aloft,  surveyed  the 
company  as  if  it  were  in  danger  of  springing  a mine  of  in- 
tellect and  blowing  itself  up,  it  did  undoubtedly  happen, 
according  to  the  inscrutable  mysteries  of  things,  that  no- 
body could  be  induced,  not  to  say  to  touch  upon  Shake- 
speare, but  to  come  within  a mile  of  him,  until  the  crack 
speaker  of  Dullborough  rose  to  propose  the  immortal  mem- 
ory. Which  he  did  with  the  perplexing  and  astonishing 
result  that  before  he  had  repeated  the  great  name  half-a- 
dozen  times,  or  had  been  upon  his  legs  as  many  minutes, 
he  was  assailed  with  a general  shout  of  “ Question.  ” 


XXI. 

THE  SHORT-TIMERS. 

“ Within  so  many  yards  of  this  Covent-garden  lodging 
of  mine,  as  within  so  many  yards  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
Saint  Paul’s  Cathedral,  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  the 
Prisons,  the  Courts  of  Justice,  all  the  Institutions  that 
govern  the  land,  I can  &n&—must  find,  whether  I ivill  or 
no— in  the  open  streets,  shameful  instances  of  neglect  of 
children,  intolerable  toleration  of  the  engenderment  of 
paupers,  idlers,  thieves,  races  of  wretched  and  destructive 
cripples  both  in  body  and  mind,  a misery  to  themselves,  a 
misery  to  the  community,  a disgrace  to  civilisation,  and  an 
outrage  on  Christianity.  I know  it  to  be  a fact  as  easy  of 
demonstration  as  any  sum  in  any  of  the  elementary  rules 
of  arithmetic,  that  if  the  State  would  begin  its  work  and 
duty  at  the  beginning,  and  would  with  the  strong  hand  take 
those  children  out  of  the  streets,  while  they  are  yet  chil- 
dren, and  Avisely  train  them,  it  would  make  them  a part  of 
England’s  glory,  not  its  shame — of  England’s  strength,  not 
its  weakness — would  raise  good  soldiers  and  sailors,  and 


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203 


pgood  citizens,  and  many  great  men,  out  of  the  seeds  of  its 
Criminal  population.  Yet  I go  on  bearing  with  the  enormity 
as  if  it  were  nothing,  and  I go  on  reading  the  Parliamen- 
I fcary  Debates  as  if  they  were  something,  and  I concern 
myself  far  more  about  one  railway-bridge  across  a public 
ijthoroughfare,  than  about  a dozen  generations  of  scrofula, 
[Ignorance,  wickedness,  prostitution,  poverty,  and  felony.  I 
' ban  slip  out  at  my  door,  in  the  small  hours  after  any  mid- 
I light,  and,  in  one  circuit  of  the  purlieus  of  Covent-garden 
Market,  can  behold  a state  of  infancy  and  youth,  as  vile  as 
If  a Bourbon  sat  upon  the  English  throne;  a great  police 
jforce  looking  on  with  authority  to  do  no  more  than  worry 
and  hunt  the  dreadful  vermin  into  corners,  and  there  leave 
them.  Within  the  length  of  a few  streets  I can  find  a 
.workhouse,  mismanaged  with  that  dull  short-sighted  obsti- 
lacy  that  its  greatest  opportunities  as  to  the  children  it  re- 
ceives are  lost,  and  yet  not  a farthing  saved  to  any  om\ 
But  the  wheel  goes  round,  and  round,  and  round;  and  be- 
cause it  goes  round — so  I am  told  by  the  politest  authori- 
! 'ies — it  goes  well.” 

Thus  I reflected,  one  day  in  the  Whitsun  week  last  past, 
IS  I floated  down  the  Thames  among  the  bridges,  looking 
I — not  inappropriately — at  the  drags  that  were  hanging  up 
' it  certain  dirty  stairs  to  hook  the  drowned  out,  and  at  the 
numerous  conveniences  provided  to  facilitate  their  tumbling 
n.  My  object  in  that  uncommercial  journey  called  up 
mother  train  of  thought,  and  it  ran  as  follows : 

‘‘When  I was  at  school,  one  of  seventy  boys,  I wonder 
:ny  what  secret  understanding  our  attention  began  to  wan- 
der when  we  had  pored  over  our  books  for  some  hours.  I 
vonder  by  what  ingenuity  we  brought  on  that  confused 
date  of  mind  when  sense  became  nonsense,  when  figures 
fvouldn’t  work,  when  dead  languages  wouldn’t  construe, 
livhen  live  languages  wouldn’t  be  spoken,  when  memory 
Wouldn’t  come,  when  dulness  and  vacancy  wouldn’t  go.  I 
i ;annot  remember  that  we  ever  conspired  to  be  sleepy  after 
dinner,  or  that  we  ever  particularly  wanted  to  be  stupid, 

; ind  to  have  flushed  faces  and  hot  beating  heads,  or  to  find 
)lank  hopelessness  and  obscurity  this  afternoon  in  what 
' vould  become  perfectly  clear  and  bright  in  the  freshness 
af  to-morrow  morning.  We  suffered  for  these  things,  and 
, hey  made  us  miserable  enough.  Neither  do  I remember 
1 hat  we  ever  bound  ourselves  by  any  secret  oath  or  other 


204 


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solemn  obligation,  to  find  the  seats  getting  too  hard  to  be 
sat  upon  after  a certain  time;  or  to  have  intolerable 
twitches  in  our  legs,  rendering  us  aggressive  and  malicious 
with  those  members;  or  to  be  troubled  with  a similar  un- 
easiness in  our  elbows,  attended  with  fistic  consequences 
to  our  neighbours;  or  to  carry  two  pounds  of  lead  in  the 
chest,  four  pounds  in  the  head,  and  several  active  blue- 
bottles in  each  ear.  Yet,  for  certain,  we  suffered  under 
those  distresses,  and  were  always  charged  at  for  labouring 
under  them,  as  if  we  had  brought  them  on,  of  our  own  de- 
liberate act  and  deed.  As  to  the  mental  portion  of  them 
being  my  own  fault  in  my  own  case— I should  like  to  ask 
any  well-trained  and  experienced  teacher,  not  to  say  psy- 
chologist. And  as  to  the  physical  portion — I should  like 
to  ask  Pbofessoe  Oweb.” 

It  happened  that  I had  a small  bundle  of  papers  with 
me,  on  what  is  called  “ The  Half-Time  System  ” in  schools. 
Referring  to  one  of  those  papers  I found  that  the  indefati- 
gable Mr.  Chadwick  had  been  beforehand  with  me,  and 
had  already  asked  Professor  Owen : who  had  handsomely 
replied  that  I ' was  not  to  blame,  but  that,  being  troubled 
with  a skeleton,  and  having  been  constituted  according  to 
certain  natural  laws,  I and  my  skeleton  were  unfortunately 
bound  by  those  laws — even  in  school — and  had  comported 
ourselves  accordingly.  Much  comforted  by  the  good  Pro- 
fessor’s being  on  my  side,  I read  on  to  discover  whether 
the  indefatigable  Mr.  Chadwick  had  taken  up  the  mental 
part  of  my  afflictions.  I found  that  he  had,  and  that  he 
had  gained  on  my  behalf.  Sir  Benjamin  Brodie,  Sir 
David  Wilkie,  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  the  common 
sense  of  mankind.  For  which  I beg  Mr.  Chadwick,  if  this 
should  meet  his  eye,  to  accept  my  warm  acknowledgments. 

Up  to  that  time  I had  retained  a misgiving  that  the 
seventy  unfortunates  of  whom  I was  one,  must  have  been, 
without  knowing  it,  leagued  together  by  the  spirit  of  evil 
in  a sort  of  perpetual  Guy  Fawkes  Plot,  to  grope  about  in 
vaults  with  dark  lanterns  after  a certain  period  of  continu- 
ous study.  But  now  the  misgiving  vanished,  and  I floated 
on  with  a quieted  mind  to  see  the  Half-Time  System  in 
action.  For  that  was  the  purpose  of  my  journey,  both  by 
steamboat  on  the  Thames,  and  by  very  dirty  railway  on 
the  shore.  To  which  last  institution,  I beg  to  recommend 
the  legal  use  of  coke  as  engine- fuel,  rather  than  the  illegal 


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206 


use  of  coal;  the  recommendation  is  quite  disinterested,  for 
I was  most  liberally  supplied  with  small  coal  on  the  jour- 
ney, for  which  no  charge  was  made.  I had  not  only  my 
^eyes,  nose,  and  ears  filled,  but  my  hat,  and  all  my  pockets, 
?!and  my  pocket-book,  and  my  watch. 

The  V.D.S.C.R.C.  (or  Very  Dirty  and  Small  Coal  Rail- 
way Company)  delivered  me  close  to  my  destination,  and 

soon  found  the  Half-Time  System  established  in  spacious 
premises,  and  freely  placed  at  my  convenience  and  dis- 
posal. 

What  would  I see  first  of  the  Half-Time  System?  I 
chose  Military  Drill.  ^^Atten — tion!^^  Instantly  a hun- 
dred boys  stood  forth  in  the  paved  yard  as  one  boy;  bright, 
quick,  eager,  steady,  watchful  for  the  look  of  command, 
instant  and  ready  for  the  word.  Not  only  was  there  com- 
' plete  precision — complete  accord  to  the  eye  and  to  the  ear 
— but  an  alertness  in  the  doing  of  the  thing  which  deprived 
|it,  curiously,  of  its  monotonous  or  mechanical  character. 
jThere  was  perfect  uniformity,  and  yet  an  individual  spirit 
'and  emulation.  No  spectator  could  doubt  that  the  boys 
liked  it.  With  non-commissioned  officers  varying  from  a 
yard  to  a yard  and  a half  high,  the  result  could  not  possi- 
bly have  been  attained  otherwise.  They  marched,  and 
counter-marched,  and  formed  in  line  and  square,  and  com- 
pany, and  single  file  and  double  file,  and  performed  a va- 
riety of  evolutions;  all  most  admirably.  In  respect  of  an 
air  of  enjoyable  understanding  of  what  they  were  about, 
which  seems  to  be  forbidden  to  English  soldiers,  the  boys 
might  have  been  small  French  troops.  When  they  were 
dismissed  and  the  broadsword  exercise,  limited  to  a much 
smaller  number,  succeeded,  the  boys  who  had  no  part  in 
that  new  drill,  either  looked  on  attentively,  or  disported 
themselves  in  a gymnasium  hard  by.  The  steadiness  of 
the  broadsword  boys  on  their  short  legs,  and  the  firmness 
with  which  they  sustained  the  different  positions,  was  truly 
remarkable. 

The  broadsword  exercise  over,  suddenly  there  was  great 
excitement  and  a rush.  Naval  Drill! 

In  the  corner  of  the  ground  stood  a decked  mimic  ship, 
with  real  masts,  yards,  and  sails — mainmast  seventy  feet  * 
ligh.  At  the  word  of  command  from  the  Skipper  of  this 
jhip— a mahogany-faced  Old  Salt,  with  the  indispensable 
juid  in  his  cheek,  the  true  nautical  roll,  and  all  wonder- 


20G 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


fully  complete — the  rigging  was  covered  with  a swarm  of 
boys:  one,  the  first  to  spring  into  the  shrouds,  outstripping 
all  the  others,  and  resting  on  the  truck  of  the  main-topmast 
in  no  time. 

And  now  we  stood  out  to  sea,  in  a most  amazing  man- 
ner; the  Skipper  himself,  the  whole  crew,  the  Uncommer- 
cial, and  all  hands  present,  implicitly  believing  that  there 
was  not  a moment  to  lose,  that  the  wind  had  that  instant 
chopped  round  and  sprung  up  fair,  and  that  we  were  away 
on  a voyage  round  the  world.  Get  all  sail  upon  her ! V\^ith 
a will,  my  lads!  Lay  out  upon  the  main-yard  there! 
Look  alive  at  the  weather  earring ! Cheery,  my  boys ! Let 
go  the  sheet,  now ! Stand  by  at  the  braces,  you ! With  a 
will,  aloft  there ! Belay,  starboard  watch ! Fifer ! Come 
aft,  fifer,  and  give ’em  a tune!  Forthwith,  springs  up 
fifer,  fife  in  hand — smallest  boy  ever  seen — big  lump  on 
temple,  having  lately  fallen  down  on  a paving-stone — gives 
’em  a tune  with  all  his  might  and  main.  Hooroar,  fifer! 
With  a will,  my  lads!  Tip  ’em  a livelier  one,  fifer!  Fifer 
tips  ’em  a livelier  one,  and  excitement  increases.  Shake 
’em  out,  my  lads!  Well  done!  There  you  have  her! 
Pretty,  pretty ! Every  rag  upon  her  she  can  carry,  wind 
right  astarn,  and  ship  cutting  through  the  water  fifteen  i 
knots  an  hour!  li 

At  this  favourable  moment  of  her  voyage,  I gave  the  || 
alarm  ^^A  man  overboard!”  (on  the  gravel),  but  he  was  | 
immediately  recovered,  none  the  worse.  Presently,  I ob-  j 
served  the  Skipper  overboard,  but  forebore  to  mention  it,  I 
as  he  seemed  in  no  wise  disconcerted  by  the  accident.  In- 
deed, I soon  came  to  regard  the  Skipper  as  an  amphibious  i 
creature,  for  he  was  so  perpetually  plunging  overboard  to  | 
look  up  at  the  hands  aloft,  that  he  was  oftener  in  the  ' 
bosom  of  the  ocean  than  on  deck.  His  pride  in  his  crew 
on  those  occasions  was  delightful,  and  the  conventional 
unintelligibility  of  his  orders  in  the  ears  of  uncommercial 
landlubbers  and  loblolly  boys,  though  they  were  always  in- 
telligible to  the  crew,  was  hardly  less  pleasant.  But  we 
couldn’t  expect  to  go  on  in  this  way  for  ever;  dirty  weather 
came  on,  and  then  worse  weather,  and  when  we  least  ex-  | 
pected  it  we  got  into  tremendous  difficulties.  Screw  loose 
in  the  chart  perhaps- — something  certainly  wrong  some- 
where— but  here  we  were  with  breakers  ahead,  my  lads, 
driving  head  on,  slap  on  a lee  shore ! The  Skipper 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


207 


: broached  this  terrific  announcement  in  such  great  agitation, 
that  the  small  fifer,  not  fifing  now,  but  standing  looking  on 
.near  the  wheel  with  his  fife  under  his  arm,  seemed  for  the 
^ moment  quite  unboy ed,  though  he  speedily  recovered  his 
j presence  of  mind.  In  the  trying  circumstances  that  en- 
sued, the  Skipper  and  the  crew  proved  worthy  of  one 
mnother.  The  Skipper  got  dreadfully  hoarse,  but  other- 
)!wise  was  master  of  the  situation.  The  man  at  the  wheel 
“'did  wonders;  all  hands,  (except  the  fifer)  were  turned  up 
bo  wear  ship;  and  I observed  the  fifer,  when  we  were  at 
' Dur  greatest  extremity,  to  refer  to  some  document  in  his 
waistcoat-pocket,  which  I conceived  to  be  his  will.  I think 
^she  struck.  I was  not  myself  conscious  of  any  collision, 
but  I saw  the  Skipper  so  very  often  washed  overboard  and 
rback  again,  that  I could  only  impute  it  to  the  beating  of 
jbhe  ship.  I am  not  enough  of  a seaman  to  describe  the 
inanoeuvres  by  which  we  were  saved,  but  they  made  the 
Skipper  very  hot  (French  polishing  his  mahogany  face)  and 
jbhe  crew  very  nimble,  and  succeeded  to  a marvel;  for. 
Within  a few  minutes  of  the  first  alarm,  we  had  wore  ship 
I ind  got  her  off,  and  were  all  a-tauto — which  I felt  very 
; grateful  for : not  that  I knew  what  it  was,  but  that  I per- 
i 3eived  that  we  had  not  been  all  a-tauto  lately.  Land  now 
I ippeared  on  our  weather-bow,  and  we  shaped  our  course  for 
t,  having  the  wind  abeam,  and  frequently  changing  the 

■ nan  at  the  helm,  in  order  that  every  man  might  have 

■ lis  spell.  We  worked  into  harbour  under  prosperous  cir- 
I cumstances,  and  furled  our  sails,  and  squared  our  yards, 

ind  made  all  ship-shape  and  handsome,  and  so  our  voyage 
: aided.  When  I complimented  the  Skipper  at  parting  on 
fiis  exertions  and  those  of  his  gallant  crew,  he  informed 
ne  that  the  latter  were  provided  for  the  worse,  all  hands 
leing  taught  to  swim  and  dive;  and  he  added  that  the  able 
Ueaman  at  the  main- topmast  truck  especially,  could  dive 
I IS  deep  as  he  could  go  high. 

The  next  adventure  that  befell  me  in  my  visit  to  the 
^hort-Timers,  was  the  sudden  apparition  of  a military 
oand.  I had  been  inspecting  the  hammocks  of  the  good 
: .hip,  when  I saw  with  astonishment  that  several  musical 
nstruments,  brazen  and  of  great  size,  appeared  to  have 
uddenly  developed  two  legs  each,  and  to  be  trotting  about 
yard.  And  my  astonishment  was  heightened  when  I ob- 
erved  a large  drum,  that  had  previously  been  leaning  help- 


208 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


less  against  a wall,  taking  up  a stout  position  on  four  legs. 
Approaching  this  drum  and  looking  over  it,  I found  two 
boys  behind  it  (it  was  too  much  for  one),  and  then  I found 
that  each  of  the  brazen  instruments  had  brought  out  a boy, 
and  was  going  to  discourse  sweet  sounds.  The  boys— not 
omitting  the  fifer,  now  playing  a new  instrument — were 
dressed  in  neat  uniform,  and  stood  up  in  a circle  at  their 
music-stands,  like  any  other  Military  Band.  They  played 
a march  or  two,  and  then  we  had  Cheer  boys.  Cheer,  and 
then  we  had  Yankee  Doodle,  and  we  finished,  as  in  loyal 
duty  bound,  with  God  Save  the  Queen.  The  band’s  profi- 
ciency was  perfectly  wonderful,  and  it  was  not  at  all  won- 
derful that  the  whole  body  corporate  of  Short-Timers  lis- 
tened with  faces  of  the  liveliest  interest  and  pleasure. 

What  happened  next  among  the  Short-Timers?  As  if 
the  band  had  blown  me  into  a great  class-room  out  of  their 
brazen  tubes,  in  a great  class-room  I found  myself  now, 
with  the  whole  choral  force  of  Short-Timers  singing  the 
praises  of  a summer’s  day  to  the  harmonium,  and  my  small 
but  highly-respected  friend  the  fifer  blazing  away  vocally, 
as  if  he  had  been  saving  up  his  wind  for  the  last  twelve- 
month;  also  the  whole  creAV  of  the  good  ship  Nameless 
swarming  up  and  down  the  scale  as  if  they  had  never 
swarmed  up  and  down  the  rigging.  This  done,  we  threw 
our  whole  power  into  God  bless  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and 
blessed  his  Eoyal  Highness  to  such  an  extent  that,  for  my 
own  Uncommercial  part,  I gasped  again  when  it  was  over. 
The  moment  this  was  done,  we  formed,  with  surpassing 
freshness,  into  hollow  squares,  and  fell  to  work  at  oral  les- 
sons, p if  we  never  did,  and  had  never  thought  of  doing, 
anything  else. 

Let  a veil  be  drawn  over  the  self-committals  into  which 
the  Uncommercial  Traveller  would  have  been  betrayed  but 
for  a discreet  reticence,  coupled  with  an  air  of  absolute 
wisdom  on  the  part  of  that  artful  personage.  Take  the 
square  of  five,  multiply  it  by  fifteen,  divide  it  by  three, 
deduct  eight  from  it,  add  four  dozen  to  it,  give  me  the  re- 
sult in  pence,  and  tell  me  how  many  eggs  I could  get  for 
it  at  three  farthings  apiece.  The  problem  is  hardly  stated, 
when  a dozen  small  boys  pour  out  answers.  Some  wide, 
some  very  nearly  right,  some  worked  as  far  as  they  go  with 
such  accuracy,  as  at  once  to  show  what  link  of  the  chain 
has  been  dropped  in  the  hurry.  For  the  moment,  none  are 


THE  UlSrCOMMERCUL  TRAVELLER. 


209 


quite  right;  but  behold  a labouring  spirit  beating  the  but- 
tons on  its  corporeal  waistcoat,  in  a process  of  internal  cal- 
Kculation,  and  knitting  an  accidental  bump  on  its  corporeal 
forehead  in  a concentration  of  mental  arithmetic!  It  is 
my  honourable  friend  (if  he  will  allow  me  to  call  him  so) 
(rthe  lifer.  With  right  arm  eagerly  extended  in  token  of 
hbeing  inspired  with  an  answer,  and  with  right  leg  foremost, 
tthe  lifer  solves  the  mystery : then  recalls  both  arm  and  leg, 
And  with  bump  in  ambush  awaits  the  next  poser.  Take 
(the  square  of  three,  multiply  it  by  seven,  divide  it  by  four, 

; a,dd  fifty  to  it,  take  thirteen  from  it,  multiply  it  by  two, 

■ iouble  it,  give  me  the  result  in  pence,  and  say  how  many 
half-pence.  Wise  as  a serpent  is  the  four  feet  of  per- 
former on  the  nearest  approach  to  that  instrument,  whose 
; right  arm  instantly  appears,  and  quenches  this  arithmetical 
^fire.  Tell  me  something  about  Great  Britain,  tell  me  some- 
Phhing  about  its  principal  productions,  tell  me  something 
about  its  ports,  tell  me  something  about  its  seas  and  rivers, 
jibell  me  something  about  coal,  iron,  cotton,  timber,  tin,  and 
llburpentine.  The  hollow  square  bristles  with  extended  right 
firms;  but  ever  faithful  to  fact  is  the  fifer,  ever  wise  as  the 
serpent  is  the  performer  on  that  instrument,  ever  promi- 
^lently  buoyant  and  brilliant  are  all  members  of  the  band. 
[ observe  the  player  of  the  cymbals  to  dash  at  a sounding 
Answer  now  and  then  rather  than  not  cut  in  at  all;  but  I 
l,:ake  that  to  'be  in  the  way  of  his  instrument.  All  these 
^ questions,  and  many  such,  are  put  on  the  spur  of  the  mo- 
-nent,  and  by  one  who  has  never  examined  these  boys. 
The  Uncommercial,  invited  to  add  another,  falteringly  de- 
; Hands  how  many  birthdays  a man  born  the  twenty -ninth 
I )f  February  will  have  had  on  completing  his  fiftieth  year? 

; A general  perception  of  trap  and  pitfall  instantly  arises,  and 
:he  fifer  is  seen  to  retire  behind  the  corduroys  of  his  next 
heighbours,  as  perceiving  special  necessity  for  collecting 
kiimself  and  communing  with  his  mind.  Meanwhile,  the 
Lvisdom  of  the  serpent  suggests  that  the  man  will  have  had 
)nly  one  birthday  in  all  that  time,  for  how  can  any  man 
mave  more  than  one,  seeing  that  he  is  born  once  and  dies 
j)nce?  The  blushing  Uncommercial  stands  corrected,  and 
; imends  the  formula.  Pondering  ensues,  two  or  three 
tvrong  answers  are  offered,  and  Cymbals  strikes  up  “ Six ! 
!i)ut  doesn’t  know  why.  Then  modestly  emerging  from  his 
Vcademic  Grove  of  corduroys  appears  the  fifer,  right  arm 
14 


210 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


extended,  right  leg  foremost,  bump  irradiated.  Twelve, | 
and  two  over ! 

The  feminine  Short-Timers  passed  a similar  examination,! 
and  very  creditably  too.  Would  have  done  better  perhaps,| 
with  a little  more  geniality  on  the  part  of  their  pupil-i 
teacher;  for  a cold  eye,  my  young  friend,  and  a hard 
abrupt  manner,  are  not  by  any  means  the  powerful  engines 
that  your  innocence  supposes  them  to  be.  Both  girls  and 
boys  wrote  excellently,  from  copy  and  dictation;  both 
could  cook;  both  could  mend  their  own  clothes;  both  could 
clean  up  everything  about  them  in  an  orderly  and  skilful 
way,  the  girls  having  womanly  household  knowledge  super- 
added.  Order  and  method  began  in  the  songs  of  the  In- 
fant School  which  I visited  likewise,  and  they  were  even 
in  their  dwarf  degree  to  be  found  in  the  Nursery,  where 
the  Uncommercial  walking-stick  was  carried  off  with  accla- 
mations, and  where  ^^the  Doctor” — a medical  gentleman  of 
two,  who  took  his  degree  on  the  night  when  he  was  found 
at  an  apothecary’s  door — did  the  honours  of  the  establish- 
ment with  great  urbanity  and  gaiety. 

These  have  long  been  excfeilent  schools;  long  before  thel 
days  of  the  Short-Time.  I first  saw  them,  twelve  or  fif- 
teen years  ago.  But  siiice  the  introduction  of  the  Short- 1 
Time  system  it  has  been  proved  here  that  eighteen  hours  a 
week  of  book-learning  are  more  profitable  than  thirty-six, 
and  that  the  pupils  are  far  quicker  and  brighter  than  of 
yore.  The  good  influences  of  music  on  the  whole  body  ofj 
children  have  likewise  been  surprisingly  proved.  Obviously! 
another  of  the  immense  advantages  of  the  Short-Timej 
system  to  the  cause  of  good  education  is  the  great  diminu-| 
tion  of  its  cost,  and  of  the  period  of  time  over  which  it  ex-; 
tends.  The  last  is  a most  important  consideration,  as  poor 
parents  are  always  impatient  to  profit  by  their  children’s 
labour. 

It  will  be  objected : Firstly,  that  this  is  all  very  well, 
but  special  local  advantages  and  special  selection  of  chil- 
dren must  be  necessary  to  such  success.  Secondly,  that 
this  is  all  very  well,  but  must  be  very  expensive.  Thirdly, 
that  this  is  all  very  well,  but  we  have  no  proof  of  the  re- 
sults, sir,  no  proof. 

On  the  first  head  of  local  advantages  and  special  selec- 
tion. Would  Limehouse  Hole  be  picked  out  for  the  site 
of  a Children’s  Paradise?  Or  would  the  legitimate  and 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


211 


illegitimate  pauper  children  of  the  long-shore  population 
of  such  a riverside  district,  be  regarded  as  unusually  fa- 
vourable specimens  to  work  with?  Yet  these  schools  are 
at  Limehouse,  and  are  the  Pauper  Schools  of  the  Stepney 
Pauper  Union. 

On  the  second  head  of  expense.  Would  sixpence  a week 
be  considered  a very  large  cost  for  the  education  of  each 
pupil,  including  all  salaries  of  teachers  and  rations  of  teach- 
ers? But  supposing  the  cost  were  not  sixpence  a week, 
not  fivepence?  It  is  fourpence-halfpenny. 

On  the  third  head  of  no  proof,  sir,  no  proof.  Is  there 
any  proof  in  the  facts  that  Pupil  Teachers  more  in  number, 
and  more  highly  qualified,  have  been  produced  here  under 
the  Short-Time  system  than  under  the  Long-Time  system? 
That  the  Short-Timers,  in  a writing  competition,  beat  the 
Long-Timers  of  a first-class  National  School?  That  the 
sailor-boys  are  in  such  demand  for  merchant  ships,  that 
whereas,  before  they  were  trained,  10^.  premium  used  to 
be  given  with  each  boy — too  often  to  some  greedy  brute  of 
a drunken  skipper,  who  disappeared  before  the  term  of  ap- 
prenticeship was  out,  if  the  ill-used  boy  didn’t — captains 
of  the  best  character  now  take  these  boys  more  than  will- 
ingly, with  no  premium  at  all?  That  they  are  also  much 
esteemed  in  the  Royal  Navy,  which  they  prefer,  “because 
everything  is  so  neat  and  clean  and  orderly  ”?  Or,  is  there 
any  proof  in  Naval  captains  writing,  “ Your  little  fellows 
are  all  that  I can  desire  ”?  Or,  is  there  any  proof  in  such 
testimony  as  this : “ The  owner  of  a vessel  called  at  the 

school,  and  said  that  as  his  ship  was  going  down  Channel 
on  her  last  voyage,  with  one  of  the  boys  from  the  school 
on  board,  the  pilot  said,  Ut  would  be  as  well  if  the  royal 
were  lowered;  I wish  it  were  down.’  Without  waiting  for 
any  orders,  and  unobserved  by  the  pilot,  the  lad,  whom 
they  had  taken  on  board  from  the  school,  instantly  mounted 
the  mast  and  lowered  the  royal,  and  at  the  next  glance  of 
the  pilot  to  the  masthead,  he  perceived  that  the  sail  had 
been  let  down.  He  exclaimed,  ‘Who’s  done  that  job?’ 
The  owner,  who  was  on  board,  said,  ‘That  was  the  little 
fellow  whom  I put  on  board  two  days  ago.  ’ The  pilot  im- 
mediately said,  ‘ Why,  where  could  he  have  been  brought 
up?  ’ That  boy  had  never  seen  the  sea  or  been  on  a real 
ship  before”  ? Or,  is  there  any  proof  in  these  boys  being 
in  greater  demand  for  Regimental  Bands  than  the  Union 


212  the  uncommercial  traveller. 

can  meet?  Or,  in  ninety-eight  of  them  having  gone  into 
Regimental  Bands  in  three  years?  Or,  in  twelve  of  them 
l)eing  in  the  band  of  one  regiment?  Or,  in  the  colonel  of 
that  regiment  writing,  We  want  six  more  boys;  they  are 
excellent  lads  ^^?  Or,  in  one  of  the  boys  having  risen  to 
be  band-corporal  in  the  same  regiment?  Or,  in  employers 
of  all  kinds  chorusing,  Give  us  drilled  boys,  for  they  are 
prompt,  obedient,  and  punctuaP^?  Other  proofs  I have 
myself  beheld  with  these  Uncommercial  eyes,  though  I do 
not  regard  myself  as  having  a right  to  relate  in  what  social 
positions  they  have  seen  respected  men  and  women  who 
were  once  pauper  children  of  the  Stepney  Union. 

Into  what  admirable  soldiers  other  of  these  boys  have 
the  capabilities  for  being  turned,  I need  not  point  out. 
Many  of  them  are  always  ambitious  of  military  service; 
and  once  upon  a time  when  an  old  boy  came  back  to  see 
the  old  place,  a cavalry  soldier  all  complete,  with  his  spurs 
on,  such  a yearning  broke  out  to  get  into  cavalry  regiments 
and  wear  those  sublime  appendages,  that  it  was  one  of  the 
greatest  excitements  ever  known  in  the  school.  The  girls 
make  excellent  domestic  servants,  and  at  certain  periods 
come  back,  a score  or  two  at  a time,  to  see  the  old  build- 
ing, and  to  take  tea  with  the  old  teachers,  and  to  hear  the 
old  band,  and  to  see  the  old  ship  with  her  masts  towering 
up  above  the  neighbouring  roofs  and  chimneys.  As  to  the 
physical  health  of  these  schools,  it  is  so  exceptionally  re- 
markable (simply  because  the  sanitary  regulations  are  as 
good  as  the  other  educational  arrangements),  that  when 
Mr.  Tufnell,  the  Inspector,  first  stated  it  in  a report,  he 
was  supposed,  in  spite  of  his  high  character,  to  have  been 
betrayed  into  some  extraordinary  mistake  or  exaggeration. 
In  the  moral  health  of  these  schools, — where  corporal  pun- 
ishment is  unknown — Truthfulness  stands  high.  When 
the  ship  was  first  erected,  the  boys  were  forbidden  to  go 
aloft,  until  the  nets,  which  are  now  always  there,  were 
stretched  as  a precaution  against  accidents.  Certain  boys, 
in  their  eagerness,  disobeyed  the  injunction,  got  out  of 
window  in  the  early  daylight,  and  climbed  to  the  mast- 
head. One  boy  unfortunately  fell,  and  v/as  killed.  There 
was  no  clue  to  the  others;  but  all  the  boys  were  assembled, 
and  the  chairman  of  the  Board  addressed  them.  “ I prom- 
ise nothing;  you  see  what  a dreadful  thing  has  happened; 
yon  know  what  a grave  offence  it  is  that  has  led  to  such  a 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


213 


consequence;  I cannot  say  what  will  be  done  with  the 
offenders;  but,  boys,  you  have  been  trained  here,  above 
all  things,  to  respect  the  truth.  I want  the  truth.  Who 
are  the  delinquents?^^  Instantly,  the  whole  number  of 
boys  concerned,  separated  from  the  rest,  and  stood  out. 

Now,  the  head  and  heart  of  that  gentleman  (it  is  need- 
less to  say,  a good  head  and  a good  heart)  have  been  deeply 
interested  in  these  schools  for  many  years,  and  are  so  still; 
and  the  establishment  is  very  fortunate  in  a most  admira- 
ble master,  and  moreover  the  schools  of  the  Stepney  Union 
cannot  have  got  to  be  what  they  are,  without  the  Stepney 
Board  of  Guardians  having  been  earnest  and  humane  men, 
strongly  imbued  with  a sense  of  their  responsibility.  But 
what  one  set  of  men  can  do  in  this  wise,  another  set  of 
men  can  do;  and  this  is  a noble  example  to  all  other  Bodies 
and  Unions,  and  a noble  example  to  the  State.  Followed, 
and  enlarged  upon  by  its  enforcement  on  bad  parents,  it 
would  clear  London  streets  of  the  most  terrible  objects  they 
smite  the  sight  with — myriads  of  little  children  who  aw- 
fully reverse  Our  Saviour^  s words,  and  are  not  of  the  King- 
dom of  Heaven,  but  of  the  Kingdom  of  Hell. 

Clear  the  public  streets  of  such  shame,  and  the  public 
conscience  of  such  reproach?  Ah!  Almost  prophetic, 
surely,  the  child’s  jingle: 

When  will  that  be, 

Say  the  bells  of  Step-ney  I 


XXII. 

BOUND  FOR  THE  GREAT  SALT  LAKE 

Behold  me  on  my  way  to  an  Emigrant  Ship,  on  a hot 
morning  early  in  June.  My  road  lies  through  that  part  of 
London  generally  known  to  the  initiated  as  Down  by  the 
Docks.”  Down  by  the  Docks,  is  home  to  a good  many 
people — to  too  many,  if  I may  judge  from  the  overflow  of 
local  population  in  the  streets — but  my  nose  insinuates 
that  the  number  to  whom  it  is  Sweet  Home  might  be  easily 
counted.  Down  by  the  Docks,  is  a region  I would  choose 


214 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


as  my  point  of  embarkation  aboard  ship  if  I were  an  emi- 
gTant.  It  would  present  my  intention  to  me  in  such  a sen- 
sible light;  it  would  show  me  so  many  things  to  be  run 
away  from. 

Down  by  the  Docks,  they  eat  the  largest  oysters  and 
scatter  the  roughest  oyster  shells,  known  to  the  descend- 
ants of  Saint  George  and  the  Dragon.  Down  by  the  Docks, 
they  consume  the  slimiest  of  shell-fish,  which  seem  to  have 
been  scraped  off  the  copper  bottoms  of  ships.  Down  by  the 
Docks,  the  vegetables  at  green- grocers’  doors  acquire  a 
saline  and  a scaly  look,  as  if  they  had  been  crossed  with 
fish  and  seaweed.  Down  by  the  Docks,  they  board  sea- 
men” at  the  eating-houses,  the  public-houses,  the  slop- 
shops, the  coffee-shops,  the  tally-shops,  all  kinds  of  shops 
mentionable  and  unmentionable — board  them,  as  it  were, 
in  the  piratical  sense,  making  them  bleed  terribly,  and  giv- 
ing no  quarter.  Down  by  the  Docks,  the  seamen  roam  in 
mid-street  and  mid-day,  their  pockets  inside-out,  and  their 
heads  no  better.  Down  by  the  Docks,  the  daughters  of 
wave-ruling  Britannia  also  rove,  clad  in  silken  attire,  with 
uncovered  tresses  streaming  in  the  breeze,  bandanna  ker- 
chiefs floating  from  their  shoulders,  and  crinoline  not  want- 
ing. Down  by  the  Docks,  you  may  hear  the  Incomparable 
Joe  Jackson  sing  the  Standard  of  England,  with  a hornpipe, 
any  night;  or  any  day  may  see  at  the  waxwork,  for  a 
penny  and  no  waiting,  him  as  killed  the  policeman  at  Ac- 
ton and  suffered  for  it.  Down  by  the  Docks,  you  may 
buy  polonies,  saveloys,  and  sausage  preparations  various, 
if  you  are  not  particular  what  they  are  made  of  besides  sea- 
soning. Down  by  the  Docks,  the  children  of  Israel  creep 
into  any  gloomy  cribs  and  entries  they  can  hire,  and  hang 
slops  there — pewter  watches,  sou’-wester  hats,  waterproof 
overalls — ^^firtht  rate  articleth,  Thjack.”  Down  by  the 
Docks,  such  dealers  exhibiting  on  a frame  a complete  nau- 
tical suit  without  the  refinement  of  a waxen- visage  in  the 
hat,  present  the  imaginary  wearer  as  drooping  at  the  yard- 
arm, with  his  seafaring  and  earthfaring  troubles  over. 
Down  by  the  Docks,  the  placards  in  the  shops  apostrophise 
the  customer,  knowing  him  familiarly  beforehand,  as. 
Look  here.  Jack ! ” Here’s  your  sort,  my  lad ! ” Try 
our  sea-going  mixed,  at  two  and  nine ! ” The  right  kit 
for  the  British  tar ! ” Ship  ahoy ! ” Splice  the  main- 
brace,  brother!”  ‘‘Come,  cheer  up,  my  lads.  We’ve  the 


THE  UTs^CO:UMEHCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


215 


best  liquors  here,  And  you’ll  find  something  new  In  our 
wonderful  Beer ! ” Down  by  the  Docks,  the  pawnbroker 
lends  money  on  Union- Jack  pocket-handkerchiefs,  on 
watches  with  little  ships  pitching  fore  and  aft  on  the  dial, 
on  telescopes,  nautical  instruments  in  cases,  and  such-like. 
Down  by  the  Docks,  the  apothecary  sets  up  in  business  on 
the  wretchedest  scale — chiefly  on  lint  and  plaster  for  the 
strapping  of  wounds — and  with  no  bright  bottles,  and  with 
no  little  drawers.  Down  by  the  Docks,  the  shabby  under- 
taker’s shop  will  bury  you  for  next  to  nothing,  after  the 
Malay  or  Chinaman  has  stabbed  you  for  nothing  at  all : so 
you  can  hardly  hope  to  make  a cheaper  end.  Down  by  the 
Docks,  anybody  drunk  will  quarrel  with  anybody  drunk  or 
sober,  and  everybody  else  will  have  a hand  in  it,  and  on 
the  shortest  notice  you  may  revolve  in  a whirlpool  of  red 
shirts,  shaggy  beards,  wild  heads  of  hair,  bare  tattooed 
arms,  Britannia’s  daughters,  malice,  mud,  maundering,  and 
madness.  Down  by  the  Docks,  scraping  fiddles  go  in  the 
public-houses  all  day  long,  and,  shrill  above  their  din  and 
all  the  din,  rises  the  screeching  of  innumerable  parrots 
brought  from  foreign  parts,  who  appear  to  be  very  much 
astonished  by  what  they  find  on  these  native  shores  of  ours. 
Possibly  the  parrots  don’t  know,  possibly  they  do,  that 
Down  by  the  Docks  is  the  road  to  the  Pacific  Ocean,  with 
its  lovely  islands,  where  the  savage  girls  plait  flowers,  and 
the  savage  boys  carve  cocoanut  shells,  and  the  grim  blind 
idols  muse  in  their  shady  groves  to  exactly  the  same  pur- 
pose as  the  priests  and  chiefs.  And  possibly  the  parrots 
don’t  know,  possibly  they  do,  that  the  noble  savage  is  a 
wearisome  impostor  wherever  he  is,  and  has  five  hundred 
thousand  volumes  of  indifferent  rhyme,  and  no  reason,  to 
answer  for. 

Shadwell  church!  Pleasant  whispers  of  there  being  a 
fresher  air  down  the  river  than  down  by  the  Docks,  go  pur- 
suing one  another,  playfully,  in  and  out  of  the  openings  in 
its  spire.  Gigantic  in  the  basin  just  beyond  the  church, 
looms  my  Emigrant  Ship : her  name,  the  Amazon.  Her 
figure-head  is  not  c^isfigured  as  those  beauteous  founders  of 
the  race  of  strong-minded  women  are  fabled  to  have  been, 
for  the  convenience  of  drawing  the  bow;  but  I sympathise 
with  the  carver : 

A flattering  carver  who  made  it  his  care 

To  carve  busts  as  they  ought  to  be— not  as  they  were. 


216 


THE  UNCOMMEKCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


My  Emigrant  Sliip  lies  broadside-on  to  the  wharf.  Two 
great  gangways  made  of  spars  and  planks  connect  her  with 
the  wharf;  and  up  and  down  these  gangways,  perpetually 
crowding  to  and  fro  and  in  and  out,  like  ants,  are  the  Emi- 
grants who  are  going  to  sail  in  my  Emigrant  Ship.  Some 
with  cabbages,  some  with  loaves  of  bread,  some  with  cheese 
and  butter,  some  with  milk  and  beer,  some  with  boxes  beds 

and  bundles,  some  with  babies — nearly  all  with  children 

nearly  all  with  bran-new  tin  cans  for  their  daily  allowance 
of  water,  uncomfortably  suggestive  of  a tin  flavour  in  the 
drink.  ^ To  and  fro,  up  and  down,  aboard  and  ashore, 
swarming  here  and  there  and  everywhere,  my  Emigrants. 
And  still  as  the  Dock-Gate  swings  upon  its  hinges,  cabs 
appear,  and  carts  appear,  and  vans  appear,  bringing  more 
of  my  Emigrants,  with  more  cabbages,  more  loaves,  more 
cheese  and  butter,  more  milk  and  beer,  more  boxes  beds 
and  bundles,  more  tin  cans,  and  on  those  shipping  invest- 
ments accumulated  compound  interest  of  children. 

I go  aboard  my  Emigrant  Ship.  I go  first  to  the  great 
cabin,  and  find  it  in  the  usual  condition  of  a Cabin  at  that 
pass.  Perspiring  landsmen,  with  loose  papers,  and  with 
pens  and  inkstands,  pervade  it;  and  the  general  appear- 
ance of  things  is  as  if  the  late  Mr.  Amazon’s  funeral  had 
just  come  home  from  the  cemetery,  and  the  disconsolate 
Mrs.  Amazon’s  trustees  found  the  affairs  in  great  disorder, 
and  were  looking  high  and  low  for  the  will.  I go  out  on 
the  poop-deck,  for  air,  and  surveying  the  emigrants  on  the 
deck  below  (indeed  they  are  crowded  all  about  me,  up  there 
too),  find  more  pens  and  inkstands  in  action,  and  more  pa- 
pers, and  interminable  complication  respecting  accounts 
with  individuals  for  tin  cans  and  what  not.  But  nobody 
is  in  an  ill-temper,  nobody  is  the  worse  for  drink,  nobody 
swears  an  oath  or  uses  a coarse  word,  nobody  appears  de- 
pressed, nobody  is  weeping,  and  down  upon  the  deck  in 
every  corner  where  it  is  possible  to  find  a few  square  feet 
to  kneel,  crouch,  or  lie  in,  people,  in  every  unsuitable  atti- 
tude for  writing,  are  writing  letters. 

Now,  I have  seen  emigrant  ships  before  this  day  in  June. 
And  these  people  are  so  strikingly  different  from  all  other 
people  in  like  circumstances  whom  I have  ever  seen,  that  I 
wonder  aloud,  What  would  a stranger  suppose  these  emi- 
grants to  be ! ” 

The  vigilant  bright  face  of  the  weather-browned  captain 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


217 


of  the  Amazon  is  at  my  shoulder,  and  he  says,  What,  in- 
deed ! The  most  of  these  came  aboard  yesterday  evening. 
They  came  from  various  parts  of  England  in  small  parties 
that  had  never  seen  one  another  before.  Yet  they  had  not 
been  a couple  of  hours  on  board,  when  they  established 
their  own  police,  made  their  own  regulations,  and  set 
their  own  watches  at  all  the  hatchways.  Before  nine 
o’clock,  the  ship  was  as  orderly  and  as  quiet  as  a man-of- 
war.” 

I looked  about  me  again,  and  saw  the  letter- writing  going 
on  with  the  most  curious  composure.  Perfectly  abstracted 
in  the  midst  of  the  crowd;  while  great  casks  were  swing- 
ing aloft,  and  being  lowered  into  the  hold;  while  hot  agents 
were  hurrying  up  and  down,  adjusting  the  interminable  ac- 
counts; while  two  hundred  strangers  were  searching  every- 
where for  two  hundred  other  strangers,  and  were  asking 
questions  about  them  of  two  hundred  more;  while  the 
children  played  up  and  down  all  the  steps,  and  in  and  out 
among  all  the  people’s  legs,  and  were  beheld,  to  the  gen- 
eral dismay,  toppling  over  all  the  dangerous  places;  the 
letter- writers  wrote  on  calmly.  On  the  starboard  side  of 
the  ship,  a grizzled  man  dictated  a long  letter  to  another 
grizzled  man  in  an  immense  fur  cap : which  letter  was  of 
so  profound  a quality,  that  it  became  necessary  for  the 
amanuensis  at  intervals  to  take  off  his  fur  cap  in  both  his 
hands,  for  the  ventilation  of  his  brain,  and  stare  at  him 
who  dictated,  as  a man  of  many  mysteries  who  was  worth 
looking  at.  On  the  larboard  side,  a woman  had  covered  a 
belaying-pin  with  a white  cloth  to  make  a neat  desk  of  it, 
and  was  sitting  on  a little  box,  writing  with  the  delibera- 
tion of  a bookkeeper.  Down  upon  her  breast  on  the  planks 
of  the  deck  at  this  woman’s  feet,  with  her  head  diving  in 
under  a beam  of  the  bulwarks  on  that  side,  as  an  eligible 
place  of  refuge  for  her  sheet  of  paper,  a neat  and  pretty 
girl  wrote  for  a good  hour  (she  fainted  at  last),  only  rising 
to  the  surface  occasionally  for  a dip  of  ink.  Alongside  the 
boat,  close  to  me  on  the  poop-deck,  another  girl,  a fresh 
well-grown  country  girl,  was  writing  another  letter  on  the 
bare  deck.  Later  in  the  day,  when  this  self-same  boat  was 
filled  with  a choir  who  sang  glees  and  catches  for  a long 
time,  one  of  the  singers,  a girl,  sang  her  part  mechanically 
all  the  while,  and  wrote  a letter  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat 
while  doing  so. 


218 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


A stranger  would  be  puzzled  to  guess  the  right  name 
for  these  people,  Mr.  Uncommercial,’^  says  the  captain. 

‘^Indeed  he  would.” 

‘‘If  you  hadn’t  known,  could  you  ever  have  sup- 
posed  ? ” 

“ How  could  I ! I should  have  said  they  were  in  their 
degree,  the  pick  and  flower  of  England.” 

“ So  should  I,”  says  the  captain. 

“ How  many  are  they?  ” 

“Eight  hundred  in  round  numbers.” 

I went  between-decks,  where  the  families  with  children 
swarmed  in  the  dark,  where  unavoidable  confusion  had 
been  caused  by  the  last  arrivals,  and  where  the  confusion 
was  increased  by  the  little  preparations  for  dinner  that  were 
going  on  in  each  group.  A few  women  here  and  there, 
had  got  lost,  and  were  laughing  at  it,  and  asking  their 
way  to  their  own  people,  or  out  on  deck  again.  A few 
of  the  poor  children  were  crying;  but  otherwise  the  uni- 
versal cheerfulness  was  amazing.  “ We  shall  shake  down 
by  to-morrow.”  “ We  shall  come  all  right  in  a day  or  so.” 
“We  shall  have  more  light  at  sea.”  Such  phrases  I 
heard  everywhere,  as  I groped  my  way  among  chests  and 
barrels  and  beams  and  unstowed  cargo  and  ring-bolts  and 
Emigrants,  down  to  the  lower-deck,  and  thence  up  to  the 
light  of  day  again,  and  to  my  former  station. 

Surely,  an  extraordinary  people  in  their  power  of  self- 
abstraction ! All  the  former  letter-writers  were  still  writ- 
ing calmly,  and  many  more  letter- writers  had  broken  out 
in  my  absence.  A boy  with  a bag  of  books  in  his  hand  and 
a slate  under  his  arm,  emerged  from  below,  concentrated 
himself  in  my  neighbourhood  (espying  a convenient  sky- 
light for  his  purpose),  and  went  to  work  at  a sum  as  if  he 
were  stone  deaf.  A father  and  mother  and  several  young 
children,  on  the  main  deck  below  me,  had  formed  a family 
circle  close  to  the  foot  of  the  crowded  restless  gangway, 
where  the  children  made  a nest  for  themselves  in  a coil  of 
rope,  and  the  father  and  mother,  she  suckling  the  youngest, 
discussed  family  affairs  as  peaceably  as  if  they  were  in  per- 
fect retirement.  I think  the  most  noticeable  characteristic 
in  the  eight  hundred  as  a mass,  was  their  exemption  from 
hurry. 

Eight  hundred  what?  “Geese,  villain?”  Eight  hun- 
dred Mormons.  I,  Uncommercial  Traveller  for  the  firm 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


219 


of  Human  Interest  Brothers,  had  come  aboard  this  Emi- 
grant Ship  to  see  what  Eight  hundred  Latter-Day  Saints 
were  like,  and  I found  them  (to  the  rout  and  overthrow  of 
all  my  expectations)  like  Vv^hat  I now  describe  with  scrupu- 
lous exactness. 

The  Mormon  Agent  who  had  been  active  in  getting  them 
together,  and  in  making  the  contract  with  my  friends  the 
owners  of  the  ship  to  take  them  as  far  as  New  York  on 
their  way  to  the  Great  Salt  Lake,  was  pointed  out  to  me. 
A compactly-made  handsome  man  in  black,  rather  short, 
with  rich-brown  hair  and  beard,  and  clear  bright  eyes. 
From  his  speech,  I should  set  him  down  as  American. 
Probably,  a man  who  had  ‘^knocked  about  the  world” 
pretty  much.  A man  with  a frank  open  manner,  and  un- 
shrinking look;  withal  a man  of  great  quickness.  I be- 
lieve he  was  wholly  ignorant  of  my  Uncommercial  indi- 
viduality, and  consequently  of  my  immense  Uncommercial 
importance. 

Uncommercial.  These  are  a very  fine  set  of  people 
you  have  brought  together  here. 

Mormon  Agent.  Yes,  sir,  they  are  a very  fine  set  of 
people. 

Uncommercial  (looking  about).  Indeed,  I think  it 
would  be  difficult  to  find  Eight  hundred  people  together 
anywhere  else,  and  find  so  much  beauty  and  so  much 
strength  and  capacity  for  work  among  them. 

Mormon  Agent  (not  looking  about,  but  looking  steadily 
at  Uncommercial).  I think  so. — We  sent  out  about  a 
thousand  more,  yes’day,  from  Liverpool. 

Uncommercial.  You  are  not  going  with  these  emi- 
grants? 

Mormon  Agent.  No,  sir.  I remain. 

Uncommercial.  But  you  have  been  in  the  Mormon 
Territory? 

Mormon  Agent.  Yes;  I left  Utah  about  three  years 
ago. 

Uncommercial.  It  is  surprising  to  me  that  these  peo- 
ple are  all  so  cheery,  and  make  so  little  of  the  immense 
distance  before  them. 

Mormon  Agent.  Well,  you  see;  many  of  ’em  have 
friends  out  at  Utah,  and  many  of  ’em  look  forward  to  meet- 
ing friends  on  the  way. 

Uncommercial.  On  the  way? 


220  the  uncommercial  TRAVELLER. 

Mormon  Agent.  Tliis  way  ’tis.  This  ship  lands  ’em 
in  New  York  City.  Then  they  go  on  by  rail  right  away 
beyond  St.  Louis,  to  that  part  of  the  Banks  of  the  Missouri 
where  they  strike  the  Plains.  There,  waggons  from  the 
settlement  meet  ’em  to  bear  ’em  company  on  their  journey 
’cross — twelve  hundred  miles  about.  Industrious  people 
who  come  out  to  the  settlement  soon  get  waggons  of  their 
own,  and  so  the  friends  of  some  of  these  will  come  down 
in  their  own  waggons  to  meet  ’em.  They  look  forward  to 
that,  greatly. 

Uncommercial.  On  their  long  journey  across  the  Des- 
ert, do  you  arm  them? 

Mormon  Agent.  Mostly  you  would  find  they  have  arms 
of  some  kind  or  another  already  with  them.  Such  as  had 
not  arms  we  should  arm  across  the  Plains,  for  the  general 
protection  and  defence. 

Uncommercial.  Will  these  waggons  bring  down  any 
produce  to  the  Missouri? 

Mormon  Agent.  Well,  since  the  war  broke  out,  we’ve 
taken  to  growing  cotton,  and  they’ll  likely  bring  down  cot- 
ton to  be  exchanged  for  machinery.  We  want  machinery. 
Also  we  have  taken  to  growing  indigo,  which  is  a fine  com- 
modity for  profit.  It  has  been  found  that  the  climate  on 
the  further  side  of  the  Great  Salt  Lake  suits  well  for  rais- 
ing indigo. 

Uncommercial.  I am  told  that  these  people  now  on 
board  are  principally  from  the  South  of  England? 

Mormon  Agent.  And  from  Wales.  That’s  true. 

Uncommercial.  Do  you  get  many  Scotch? 

Mormon  Agent.  Not  many. 

Uncommercial.  Highlanders,  for  instance? 

Mormon  Agent.  No,  not  Highlanders.  They  ain’t  in- 
terested enough  in  universal  brotherhood  and  peace  and 
good  will. 

Uncommercial.  The  old  fighting  blood  is  strong  in 
them? 

Mormon  Agent.  Well,  yes.  And  besides;  they’ve  no 
faith. 

Uncommercial  (who  has  been  burning  to  get  at  the 
Prophet  Joe  Smith,  and  seems  to  discover  an  opening). 
Faith  in — — ! 

Mormon  Agent  (far  too  many  for  Uncommercial). 
Well. — In  anything! 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


221 


Similarly  on  this  same  head,  the  Uncommercial  under- 
went discomfiture  from  a Wiltshire  labourer:  a simple 
fresh-coloured  farm-labourer,  of  eight-and-thirty,  who  at 
one  time  stood  beside  him  looking  on  at  new  arrivals,  and 
with  whom  he  held  this  dialogue : 

Uncommercial.  Would  you  mind  my  asking  you  what 
part  of  the  country  you  come  from? 

Wiltshire.  Not  a bit.  Theer!  (exultingly)  I’ve 
worked  all  my  life  o’  Salisbury  Plain,  right  under  the 
shadder  o’  Stonehenge.  You  mightn’t  think  it,  but  I haive. 

Uncommercial.  And  a pleasant  country  too. 

Wiltshire.  Ah!  ’Tis  a pleasant  country. 

Uncommercial.  Have  you  any  family  on  board? 

Wiltshire.  Two  children,  boy  and  gal.  I am  a wid- 
derer,  I am,  and  I’m  going  out  alonger  my  boy  and  gal. 
That’s  my  gal,  and  she’s  a fine  gal  o’  sixteen  (pointing  out 
the  girl  who  is  writing  by  the  boat).  I’ll  go  and  fetch  my 
boy.  I’d  like  to  show  you  my  boy.  (Here  Wiltshire  dis- 
appears, and  presently  comes  back  with  a big  shy  boy  of 
twelve,  in  a superabundance  of  boots,  who  is  not  at  all  glad 
to  be  presented.)  He  is  a fine  boy  too,  and  a boy  fur  to 
work!  (Boy  having  undutifully  bolted,  Wiltshire  drops 
him.) 

Uncommercial.  It  must  cost  you  a great  deal  of  money 
to  go  so  far,  three  strong. 

Wiltshire.  A power  of  money.  Theer!  Eight  shil- 
len  a week,  eight  shillen  a week,  eight  shillen  a week,  put 
by  out  of  the  week’s  wages  for  ever  so  long. 

Uncommercial.  I wonder  how  you  did  it. 

Wiltshire  (recognising  in  this  a kindred  spirit).  See 
theer  now!  1 wonder  how  I done  it!  But  what  with  a 
bit  o’  subscription  heer,  and  what  with  a bit  o’  help  theer, 
it  were  done  at  last,  though  I don’t  hardly  know  how. 
Then  it  were  unfort’net  for  us,  you  see,  as  we  got  kep’  in 
Bristol  so  long — nigh  a fortnight,  it  were — on  accounts  of 
a mistake  wi’  Brother  Halliday.  S waller’ d up  money,  it 
did,  when  we  might  have  come  straight  on. 

Uncommercial  (delicately  approaching  Joe  Smith). 
You  are  of  the  Mormon  religion,  of  course? 

Wiltshire  (confidently).  O yes,  J’m  a Mormon. 
(Then  reflectively.)  I’m  a Mormon.  (Then,  looking 
round  the  ship,  feigns  to  descry  a particular  friend  in  ah 
empty  spot,  and  evades  the  Uncommercial  for  evermore.) 


222 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


After  a noontide  pause  for  dinner,  during  which  my  Emi- 
grants were  nearly  all  between-decks,  and  the  Amazon 
looked  deserted,  a general  muster  took  place.  The  muster 
was  for  the  ceremony  of  passing  the  Government  Inspector 
and  the  Doctor.  Those  authorities  held  their  temporary 
state  amidships,  by  a cask  or  two;  and,  knowing  that  the 
whole  Eight  hundred  emigrants  must  come  face  to  face 
with  them,  I took  my  station  behind  the  two.  They  knew 
nothing  whatever  of  me,  I believe,  and  my  testimony  to 
the  unpretending  gentleness  and  good  nature  with  which 
they  discharged  their  duty,  may  be  of  the  greater  worth. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  flavour  of  the  Circumlocution 
Office  about  their  proceedings. 

The  emigrants  were  now  all  on  deck.  They  were  densely 
crowded  aft,  and  swarmed  upon  the  poop-deck  like  bees. 
Two  or  three  Mormon  agents  stood  ready  to  hand  them  on 
to  the  Inspector,  and  to  hand  them  forward  when  they  had 
passed.  By  what  successful  means,  a special  aptitude  for 
organisation  had  been  infused  into  these  people,  I am,  of 
course,  unable  to  report.  But  I know  that,  even  now,  there 
was  no  disorder,  hurry,  or  difficulty. 

All  being  ready,  the  first  group  are  handed  on.'  That 
member  of  the  party  who  is  entrusted  with  the  passenger- 
ticket  for  the  whole,  has  been  warned  by  one  of  the  agents 
to  have  it  ready,  and  here  it  is  in  his  hand.  In  every  in- 
stance through  the  whole  eight  hundred,  without  an  excep- 
tion, this  paper  is  always  ready. 

Inspectok  (reading  the  ticket).  Jessie  Jobson,  So- 
phronia  Jobson,  Jessie  Jobson  again,  Matilda  .Jobson,  Will- 
iam Jobson,  Jane  Jobson,  Matilda  Jobson  again,  Brigham 
Jobson,  Leonardo  Jobson,  and  Orson  Jobson.  Are  you 
all  here?  (glancing  at  the  party,  over  his  spectacles). 

Jessie  Jobsoh  ISTumbeb  Two.  All  here,  sir. 

This  group  is  composed  of  an  old  grandfather  and  grand- 
mother, their  married  son  and  his  wife,  and  their  family 
of  children.  Orson  Jobson  is  a little  child  asleep  in  his 
mother’s  arms.  The  Doctor,  with  a kind  word  or  so,  lifts 
up  the  corner  of  the  mother’s  shawl,  looks  at  the  child’s  face, 
and  touches  the  little  clenched  hand.  If  we  were  all  as  well 
as  Orson  Jobson,  doctoring  would  be  a poor  profession. 

Inspector.  Quite  right,  Jessie  Jobson.  Take  your 
ticket,  Jessie,  and  pass  on. 

And  away  they  go.  Mormon  agent,  skilful  and  quiet. 


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hands  them  on.  Mormon  agent,  skilful  and  quiet,  hands 
next  party  up. 

Inspector  (reading  ticket  again).  Susannah  Cleverly 
and  William  Cleverly.  Brother  and  sister,  eh? 

Sister  (young  woman  of  business,  hustling  slow  brother). 
Yes,  sir. 

Inspector.  Very  good,  Susannah  Cleverly.  Take  your 
ticket,  Susannah,  and  take  care  of  it. 

And  away  they  go. 

Inspector  (taking  ticket  again).  Sampson  Dibble  and 
Dorothy  Dibble  (surveying  a very  old  couple  over  his  spec- 
tacles, with  some  surprise).  Your  husband  quite  blind, 
Mrs.  Dibble? 

Mrs.  Dibble.  Yes,  sir,  he  be  stone-blind. 

Mr.  Dibble  (addressing  the  mast).  Yes,  sir,  I be  stone- 
blind. 

Inspector.  ThaUs  a bad  job.  Take  your  ticket,  Mrs. 
Dibble,  and  don’t  lose  it,  and  pass  on. 

Doctor  taps  Mr.  Dibble  on  the  eyebrow  with  his  fore- 
finger, and  away  they  go. 

Inspector  (taking  ticket  again).  Anastatia  Weedle. 

Anastatia  (a  pretty  girl,  in  a bright  Garibaldi,  this 
morning  elected  by  universal  suffrage  the  Beauty  of  the 
Ship).  That  is  me,  sir. 

Inspector.  Going  alone,  Anastatia? 

Anastatia  (shaking  her  curls).  I am  with  Mrs.  Job- 
son,  sir,  but  I’ve  got  separated  for  the  moment. 

Inspector.  Oh!  You  are  with  the  Jobsons?  Quite 
right.  That’ll  do.  Miss  Weedle.  Don’t  lose  your  ticket. 

Away  she  goes,  and  joins  the  Jobsons  who  are  waiting 
for  her,  and  stoops  and  kisses  Brigham  Jobson — who  ap- 
pears to  be  considered  too  young  for  the  purpose,  by  several 
Mormons  rising  twenty,  who  are  looking  on.  Before  her 
extensive  skirts  have  departed  from  the  casks,  a decent 
widow  stands  there  with  four  children,  and  so  the  roll  goes. 

The  faces  of  some  of  the  Welsh  people,  among  whom 
there  were  many  old  persons,  were  certainly  the  least  intel- 
ligent. Some  of  these  emigrants  would  have  bungled 
sorely,  but  for  the  directing  hand  that  was  always  ready. 
The  intelligence  here  was  unquestionably  of  a low  order, 
and  the  heads  were  of  a poor  type.  Generally  the  case 
was  the  reverse.  There  were  many  worn  faces  bearing 
traces  of  patient  poverty  and  hard  work,  and  there  was 


224 


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great  steadiness  of  purpose  and  ranch  underaonstative  self- 
respect  among  this  class.  A few  young  men  were  going 
singly.  Several  girls  were  going,  two  or  three  together. 
These  latter  I found  it  very  difficult  to  refer  back,  in  my 
mind,  to  their  relinquished  homes  and  pursuits.  Perhaps 
they  were  more  like  country  milliners,  and  pupil  teachers 
rather  tawdrily  dressed,  than  any  other  classes  of  young 
women.  I noticed,  among  many  little  ornaments  worn, 
more  than  one  photograph-brooch  of  the  Princess  of  Wales, 
and  also  of  the  late  Prince  Consort.  Some  single  women 
of  from  thirty  to  forty,  whom  one  might  suppose  to  be  em- 
broiderers, or  straw-bonnet-makers,  were  obviously  going 
<mt  in  quest  of  husbands,  as  finer  ladies  go  to  India.  That 
they  had  any  distinct  notions  of  a plurality  of  husbands  or 
wives,  I do  not  believe.  To  suppose  the  family  groups  of 
whom  the  majority  of  emigrants  were  composed,  polygami- 
cally  possessed,  would  be  to  suppose  an  absurdity,  mani- 
fest to  any  one  who  saw  the  fathers  and  mothers. 

I should  say  (I  had  no  means  of  ascertaining  the  fact) 
that  most  familiar  kinds  of  handicraft  trades  were  repre- 
sented here.  Farm- labourers,  shepherds,  and  the  like,  had 
their  full  share  of  representation,  but  I doubt  if  they  pre- 
ponderated. It  was  interesting  to  see  how  the  leading 
spirit  in  the  family  circle  never  failed  to  show  itself,  even 
in  the  simple  process  of  answering  to  the  names  as  they 
were  called,  and  checking  off  the  owners  of  the  names. 
Sometimes  it  was  the  father,  much  oftener  the  mother, 
sometimes  a quick  little  girl  second  or  third  in  order  of 
seniority.  It  seemed  to  occur  for  the  first  time  to  some 
heavy  fathers,  what  large  families  they  had;  and  their 
eyes  rolled  about,  during  the  calling  of  the  list,  as  if  they 
half-misdoubted  some  other  family  to  have  been  smuggled 
into  their  own.  Among  all  the  fine  handsome  children,  I 
observed  but  two  with  marks  upon  their  necks  that  were 
probably  scrofulous.  Out  of  the  whole  number  of  emi- 
grants, but  one  old  woman  was  temporarily  set  aside  by 
the  doctor,  on  suspicion  of  fever;  but  even  she  afterwards 
obtained  a clean  bill  of  health. 

When  all  had  “passed,”  and  the  afternoon  began  to 
wear  on,  a black  box  became  visible  on  deck,  which  box 
was  in  charge  of  certain  personages  also  in  black,  of  whom 
only  one  had  the  conventional  air  of  an  itinerant  preacher. 
This  box  contained  a supply  of  hymn-books,  neatly  prinh d 


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225 


and  got  up,  published  at  Liverpool,  and  also  in  London  at 
the  ‘^Latter-Day  Saints’  Book  Depot,  30,  Florence-street.” 
Some  copies  were  handsomely  bound;  the  plainer  were  the 
more  in  request,  and  many  were  bought.  The  title  ran : 
“ Sacred  Hymns  and  Spiritual  Songs  for  the  Church  of 
Jesus  Christ  of  Latter-Day  Saints.”  The  Preface,  dated 
Manchester,  1840,  ran  thus : — “ The  Saints  in  this  country 
have  been  very  desirous  for  a Hymn  Book  adapted  to  their 
faith  and  worship,  that  they  might  sing  the  truth  with  an 
understanding  heart,  and  express  their  praise  joy  and  grati- 
tude in  songs  adapted  to  the  New  and  Everlasting  Cove- 
nant. In  accordance  with  their  wishes,  we  have  selected 
the  following  volume,  which  we  hope  will  prove  acceptable 
until  a greater  variety  can  be  added.  With  sentiments  of 
high  consideration  and  esteem,  we  subscribe  ourselves  your 
brethren  in  the  New  and  Everlasting  Covenant,  Brigham 
Young,  Parley  P.  Pratt,  John  Taylor.”  From  this 
book — by  no  means  explanatory  to  myself  of  the  New  and 
Everlasting  Covenant,  and  not  at  all  making  my  heart  an 
understanding  one  on  the  subject  of  that  mystery — a hymn 
was  sung,  which  did  not  attract  any  great  amount  of  atten- 
tion, and  was  supported  by  a rather  select  circle.  But  the 
choir  in  the  boat  was  very  popular  and  pleasant;  and  there 
was  to  have  been  a Band,  only  the  Cornet  was  late  in  com- 
ing on  board.  In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  a mother 
appeared  from  shore,  in  search  of  her  daughter,  “ who  had 
run  away  with  the  Mormons.”  She  received  every  assist- 
ance from  the  Inspector,  but  her  daughter  was  not  found 
to  be  on  board.  The  saints  did  not  seem  to  me,  particu- 
larly interested  in  finding  her. 

Towards  five  o’clock,  the  galley  became  full  of  tea- 
kettles, and  an  agreeable  fragrance  of  tea  pervaded  the 
ship.  There  was  no  scrambling  or  jostling  for  the  hot 
water,  no  ill  humour,  no  quarrelling.  As  the  Amazon  was 
to  sail  with  the  next  tide,  and  as  it  would  not  be  high 
water  before  two  o’clock  in  the  morning,  I left  her  with 
her  tea  in  full  action,  and  her  idle  Steam  Tug  lying  by, 
deputing  steam  and  smoke  for  the  time  being  to  the  Tea- 
kettles. 

I afterwards  learned  that  a Despatch  was  sent  home  by 
the  captain  before  he  struck  out  into  the  wide  Atlantic, 
highly  extolling  the  behaviour  of  these  Emigrants,  and  the 
perfect  order  and  propriety  of  all  their  social  arrangements. 

15 


the  uncommercial  traveller. 

T people  on  the  shores  of  the 

Crreat  bait  Lake,  what  happy  delusions  they  are  labouring 
under  now,  on  what  miserable  blindness  their  eyes  may  be 
opened  then,  I do  not  pretend  to  say.  But  I went  on  board 
their  ship  to  bear  testimony  against  them  if  they  deserved 
It,  as  I fully  believed  they  would;  to  my  great  astonish- 
ment they  did  not  deserve  it;  and  my  predispositions  and 
tendencies  must  not  affect  me  as  an  honest  witness.  I 
went  over  the  Amazon’s  side,  feeling  it  impossible  to  deny 
that,  so  far,  some  remarkable  influence  had  produced  a re- 
markable result,  which  better  known  influences  have  often 
missed.' 


XXIII. 

the  city  op  the  absent. 

When  I think  I deserve  particularly  well  of  myself,  and 
have  earned  the  right  to  enjoy  a little  treat,  I stroll  from 
Covent-garden  into  the  City  of  London,  after  business- 
hours  there,  on  a Saturday,  or — better  yet— on  a Sunday, 
and  roam  about  its  deserted  nooks  and  corners.  It  is  neces- 
sary to  the  full  enjoyment  of  these  journeys  that  they 
should  be  made  in  summer-time,  for  then  the  retired  spots 
that  I love  to  haunt,  are  at  their  idlest  and  dullest.  A 
gentle  fall  of  rain  is  not  objectionable,  and  a warm  mist 
sets  off  my  favourite  retreats  to  decided  advantage. 

Among  these.  City  Churchyards  hold  a high  place.  Such 
strange  churchyards  hide  in  the  City  of  London;  church- 
yards sometimes  so  entirely  detached  from  churches,  always 
so  pressed  upon  by  houses;  so  small,  so  rank,  so  silent,  so 

' After  this  Uncommercial  Journey  was  printed,  I happened  to 
mention  the  experience  it  describes  to  Lord  Houghton.  That  gen- 
tleman  then  showed  me  an  article  of  his  writing,  in  The  Edinhurqh 
Uemew  for  January,  1862,  which  is  highly  remarkable  for  its  philo- 
sophical and  literary  research  concerning  these  Latter-Day  Saints.  I 
find  in  it  the  following  sentences The  Select  Committee  of  the 
House  of  Commons  on  emigrant  ships  for  1854  summoned  the  Mor- 
inon  agent  and  passenger-broker  before  it,  and  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  no  ships  under  the  provisions  of  the  ‘ Passengers  Act  ’ could 
depended  upon  for  comfort  and  security  in  the  same  degree  as 
those  under  his  administration.  The  Mormon  ship  is  a Family  un- 
der strong  and  accepted  discipline,  with  every  provision  for  comfort 
decorum,  and  internal  peace.  ” 


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227 


forgotten,  except  by  the  few  people  who  ever  look  down 
into  them  from  their  smoky  windows.  As  I stand  peeping 
in  through  the  iron  gates  and  rails,  I can  peel  the  rusty 
metal  off,  like  bark  from  an  old  tree.  The  illegible  tomb- 
stones are  all  lop-sided,  the  grave-mounds  lost  their  shape 
in  the  rains  of  a hundred  years  ago,  the  Lombardy  Poplar 
or  Plane-Tree  that  was  once  a drysalter’s  daughter  and 
several  common-councilmen,  has  withered  like  those  wor- 
thies, and  its  departed  leaves  are  dust  beneath  it.  Con- 
tagion of  slow  ruin  overhangs  the  place.  The  discoloured 
tiled  roofs  of  the  environing  buildings  stand  so  awry,  that 
they  can  hardly  be  proof  against  any  stress  of  weather. 
Old  crazy  stacks  of  chimneys  seem  to  look  down  as  they 
overhang,  dubiously  calculating  how  far  they  will  have  to 
fall.  In  an  angle  of  the  walls,  what  was  once  the  tool- 
house  of  the  grave-digger  rots  away,  encrusted  with  toad- 
stools. Pipes  and  spouts  for  carrying  off  the  rain  from  the 
encompassing  gables,  broken  or  feloniously  cut  for  old  lead 
long  ago,  now  let  the  rain  drip  and  splash  as  it  list,  upon 
the  weedy  earth.  Sometimes  there  is  a rusty  pump  some- 
where near,  and,  as  I look  in  at  the  rails  and  meditate,  I 
hear  it  working  under  an  unknown  hand  with  a creaking 
protest : as  though  the  departed  in  the  churchyard  urged, 
^^Let  us  lie  here  in  peace;  don’t  suck  us  up  and  drink  us!  ” 
One  of  my  best  beloved  churchyards,  I call  the  church- 
yard of  Saint  Ghastly  Grim;  touching  what  men  in  general 
call  it,  I have  no  information.  It  lies  at  the  heart  of  the 
City,  and  the  Blackwall  Pail  way  shrieks  at  it  daily.  It  is 
a small  small  churchyard,  with  a ferocious  strong  spiked 
iron  gate,  like  a jail.  This  gate  is  ornamented  with  skulls 
and  cross-bones,  larger  than  the  life,  wrought  in  stone;  but 
it  likewise  came  into  the  mind  of  Saint  Ghastly  Grim,  that 
to  stick  iron  spikes  a-top  of  the  stone  skulls,  as  though  they 
were  impaled,  would  be  a pleasant  device.  Therefore  the 
skulls  grin  aloft  horribly,  thrust  through  and  through  with 
iron  spears.  Hence,  there  is  attraction  of  repulsion  for 
me  in  Saint  Ghastly  Grim,  and,  having  often  contem- 
plated it  in  the  daylight  and  the  dark,  I once  felt  drawn 
towards  it  in  a thunderstorm  at  midnight.  Why  not?  ” I 
said,  in  self-excuse.  have  been  to  see  the  Colosseum' 
by  the  light  of  the  moon;  is  it  worse  to  go  to  see  Saint 
Ghastly  Grim  by  the  light  of  the  lightning?  ” I repaired 
to  the  Saint  in  a hackney  cab,  and  found  the  skulls  most 


228 


THE  UNCOMMEIICIAL  TRAVELLER. 


effective,  having  the  air  of  a public  execution,  and  seem- 
ing, as  the  lightning  flashed,  to  wink  and  grin  with  the 
pain  of  the  spikes.  Having  no  other  person  to  whom  to 
impart  my  satisfaction,  I communicated  it  to  the  driver. 
So  far  ^ from  being  responsive,  he  surveyed  me — he  was 
naturally  a bottled-nosed  red-faced  man— with  a blanched 
countenance.  And  as  he  drove  me  back,  he  ever  and  again 
glanced  in  over  his  shoulder  through  the  little  front  win- 
dow of  his  carriage,  as  mistrusting  that  I was  a fare  origi- 
nally from  a grave  in  the  churchyard  of  Saint  Ghastly  Grim, 
who  might  have  flitted  home  again  without  paying. 

Sometimes,  the  queer  Hall  of  some  queer  Company  gives 
upon  a churchyard  such  as  this,  and,  when  the  Livery  dine, 
you  may  hear  them  (if  you  are  looking  in  through  the  iron 
rails,  which  you  never  are  when  I am)  toasting  their  own 
Worshipful  prosperity.  Sometimes,  a wholesale  house  of 
business,  requiring  much  room  for  stowage,  will  occupy 
one  or  two  or  even  all  three  sides  of  the  enclosing  space, 
and  the  backs  of  bales  of  goods  will  lumber  up  the  windows, 
as  if  they  were  holding  some  crowded  trade-meeting  of 
themselves  within.  Sometimes,  the  commanding  windows 
are  all  blank,  and  show  no  more  sign  of  life  than  the 
graves  below — not  so  much,  for  they  tell  of  what  once  upon 
a time  was  life  undoubtedly.  Such  was  the  surrounding 
of  one  City  churchyard  that  I saw  last  summer,  on  a Vol- 
unteering Saturday  evening  towards  eight  of  the  clock, 
when  with  astonishment  I * beheld  an  old  old  man  and  an 
old  old  woman  in  it,  making  hay.  Yes,  of  all  occupations 
in  this  world,  making  hay ! It  was  a very  confined  patch 
of  churchyard  lying  between  Gracechurch-street  and  the 
Tower,  capable  of  yielding,  say  an  apronful  of  hay.  By 
what  means  the  old  old  man  and  woman  had  got  into  it, 
with  an  almost  toothless  hay-making  rake,  I could  not 
fathom.  Ho  open  window  was  within  view;  no  window 
at  all  was  within  view,  sufficiently  near  the  ground  to  have 
enabled  their  old  legs  to  descend  from  it;  the  rusty  church- 
yard-gate was  locked,  the  mouldy  church  was  locked. 
Gravely  among  the  graves,  they  made  hay,  all  alone  by 
themselves.  They  looked  like  Time  and  his  wife.  There 
was  but  the  one  rake  between  them,  and  they  both  had  hold 
of  it  in  a pastorally-loving  manner,  and  there  was  hay  on  the 
old  woman’s  black  bonnet,  as  if  the  old  man  had  recently 
been  playful.  The  old  man  was  quite  an  obsolete  old  man, 


THE  UNCOMMEHCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


220 


in  knee-breeches  and  coarse  grey  stockings,  and  the  old 
woman  wore  mittens  like  unto  liis  stockings  in  texture  and 
in  colour.  They  took  no  heed  of  me  as  I looked  on,  unable 
to  account  for  them.  The  old  woman  was  much  too  bright 
for  a pew-opener,  the  old  man  much  too  meek  for  a beadle. 
On  an  old  tombstone  in  the  foreground  between  me  and 
them,  were  two  cherubim;  but  for  those  celestial  embel- 
lishments being  represented  as  having  no  possible  use  for 
knee-breeches,  stockings,  or  mittensf  I should  have  com- 
pared them  with  the  hay-makers,  and  sought  a likeness.  I 
coughed  and  awoke  the  echoes,  but  the  hay-makers  never 
' looked  at  me.  They  used  the  rake  with  a measured  action, 
drawing  the  scanty  crop  towards  them;  and  so  I was  fain 
to  leave  them  under  three  yards  and  a half  of  darkening 
sky,  gravely  making  hay  among  the  graves,  all  alone  by 
themselves.  Perhaps  they  were  Spectres,  and  I wanted  a 
Medium. 

I In  another  City  churchyard  of  similar  cramped  dimen- 
'sions,  I saw,  that  self-same  summer,  two  comfortable 
charity  children.  They  were  making  love— tremendous 
proof  of  the  vigour  of  that  immortal  article,  for  they  were 
in  the  graceful  uniform  under  which  English  Charity  de- 
lights to  hide  herself — and  they  were  overgrown,  and  their 
legs  (his  legs  at  least,  for  I am  modestly  incompetent  to 
speak  of  hers)  were  as  much  in  the  wrong  as  mere  passive 
weakness  of  character  can  render  legs.  O it  was  a leaden 
churchyard,  but  no  doubt  a golden  ground  to  those  young 
persons!  • I first  saw  them  on  a Saturday  eveiling,  and, 
perceiving  from  their  occupation  that  Saturda}^  evening 
was  their  trysting-time,  I returned  that  evening  sebuiight, 
and  renewed  the  contemplation  of  them.  They  came  there 
to  shake  the  bits  of  matting  which  w^ere  spread  in  the 
church  aisles,  and  they  afterwards  rolled  them  u]),  he  roll- 
ing his  end,  she  rolling  hers,  until  they  met,  and  over  the 
two  once  divided  now  united  rolls — sweet  emblem ! — gave 
and  received  a chaste  salute.  It  v/as  so  refreshing  to  find 
one  of  my  faded  churchyards  blooming  into  flower  thus, 
that  I returned  a second  time,  and  a third,  and  ultimately 
this  befell: — They  had  left  the  church  door  open,  in  theii\ 
dusting  and  arranging.  Walking  in  to  look  at  the  church, 

, I became  aware,  by  the  dim  light,  of  him  in  the  pulpit,  of 
her  in  the  reading-desk,  of  him  looking  down,  of  her  look- 
ing up,  exchanging  tender  discourse.  Immediately  both 


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dived,  and  became  as  it  were  non-existent  on  this  sphere.  | 
With  an  assumption  of  innocence  I turned  to  leave  the  | 
sacred  edifice,  when  an  obese  form  stood  in  the  portal, 
puffily  demanding  Joseph,  or  in  default  of  Joseph,  Celia.  | 
Taking  this  monster  by  the  sleeve,  and  luring  him  forth  on 
pretence  of  showing  him  whom  he  sought,  I gave  time  for  j 
the  emergence  of  Joseph  and  Celia,  who  presently  came  j 
towards  us  in  the  churchyard,  bending  under  dusty  mat- 
ting, a picture  of  thriving  and  unconscious  industry.  It  i 
would  be  superfluous  to  hint  that  I have  ever  since  deemed  ! 
this  the  proudest  passage  in  my  life.  I 

But  such  instances,  or  any  tokens  of  vitality,  are  rare  in-  ' 
deed  in  my  City  churchyards.  A few  sparrows  occasion-  ! 
ally  try  to  raise  a lively  chirrup  in  their  solitary  tree — per-  | 
haps,  as  taking  a different  view  of  worms  from  that  enter-  | 
tained  by  humanity — but  they  are  flat  and  hoarse  of  voice,  | 
like  the  clerk,  the  organ,  the  bell,  the  clergyman,  and  all  I 
the  rest  of  the  Church-works  when  they  are  wound  up  for  ' 
Sunday.  Caged  larks,  thrushes,  or  blackbirds,  hanging  in  t 
neighbouring  courts,  pour  forth  their  strains  passionately, 
as  scenting  the  tree,  trying  to  break  out,  and  see  leaves 
again  before  they  die,  but  their  song  is  Willow,  Willow — of 
a churchyard  cast.  So  little  light  lives  inside  the  churches  ' 
of  my  churchyards,  when  the  two  are  co-existent,  that  it  is  i 
often  only  by  an  accident  and  after  long  acquaintance  that  | 
I discover  their  having  stained  glass  in  some  odd  window.  ! 
The  westering  sun  slants  into  the  churchyard  by  some  un-  I 
wonted  entry,  a few  prismatic  tears  drop  on  an  old  tomb-  ! 
stone,  and  a window  that  I thought  was  only  dirty,  is  for  I 
the  moment  all  bejewelled.  Then  the  light  passes  and  the  ; 
colours  die.  Though  even  then,  if  there  be  room  enough  ! 
for  me  to  fall  back  so  far  as  that  I can  gaze  up  to  the  top  | 
of  the  Church  Tower,  I see  the  rusty  vane  new  burnished,  [ 
and  seeming  to  look  out  with  a joyful  flash  over  the  sea  of 
smoke  at  the  distant  shore  of  country. 

Blinking  old  men  who  are  let  out  of  workhouses  by  the 
hour,  have  a tendency  to  sit  on  bits  of  coping  stone  in 
these  churchyards,  leaning  with  both  hands  on  their  sticks  ! 
and  asthmatically  gasping.  The  more  depressed  class  of  j 
beggars  too,  bring  hither  broken  meats,  and  munch.  I am  I 
on  nodding  terms  with  a meditative  turncock  who  lingers 
in  one  of  them,  and  whom  I suspect  of  a turn  for  poetry; 
the  rather,  as  he  looks  out  of  temper  when  he  gives  the 


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231 


fire-plug  a disparaging  wrench  with  that  large  tuning-fork 
of  his  which  would  wear  out  the  shoulder  of  his  coat,  but 
for  a precautionary  piece  of  inlaid  leather.  Fire-ladders, 
which  I am  satisfied  nobody  knows  anything  about,  and  the 
keys  of  which  were  lost  in  ancient  times,  moulder  away  in 
the  larger  churchyards,  under  eaves  like  wooden  eyebrows; 
and  so  removed  are  those  corners  from  the  haunts  of  men 
tiand  boys,  that  once  on  a fifth  of  November  I found  a 
. ‘‘Guy  ’’  trusted  to  take  care  of  himself  there,  while  his  pro- 
jprietors  had  gone  to  dinner.  Of  the  expression  of  his  face 
I cannot  report,  because  it  was  turned  to  the  wall;  but  his 
shrugged  shoulders  and  his  ten  extended  fingers,  appeared 
to  denote  that  he  had  moralised  in  his  little  straw  chair 
on  the  mystery  of  mortality  until  he  gave  it  up  as  a bad 
job. 

You  do  not  come  upon  these  churchyards  violently;  there 
are  shades  of  transition  in  the  neighbourhood.  An  anti- 
quated news  shop,  or  barber’s  shop,  apparently  bereft  of 
customers  in  the  earlier  days  of  George  the  Third,  would 
jWarn  me  to  look  out  for  one,  if  any  discoveries  in  this 
respect  were  left  for  me  to  make.  A very  quiet  court,  in 
combination  with  an  unaccountable  dyer’s  and  scourer’s, 
[Would  prepare  me  for  a churchyard.  An  exceedingly 
retiring  public-house,  with  a bagatelle-board  shadily  visible 
in  a sawdusty  parlour  shaped  like  an  omnibus,  and  with  a 
shelf  of  punch-bowls  in  the  bar,  would  apprise  me  that  I 
stood  near  consecrated  ground.  A “Dairy,”  exhibiting  in 
its  modest  window  one  very  little  milk-can  and  three  eggs, 
w^ould  suggest  to  me  the  certainty  of  finding  the  poultry 
hard  by,  pecking  at  my  forefathers.  I first  inferred  the 
yicinity  of  Saint  Ghastly  Grim,  from  a certain  air  of  extra 
repose  and  gloom  pervading  a vast  stack  of  warehouses. 

From  the  hush  of  these  places,  it  is  congenial  to  pass 
uto  the  hushed  resorts  of  business.  Down  the  lanes  I like 
:o  see  the  carts  and  waggons  huddled  together  in  repose, 
:he  cranes  idle,  and  the  warehouses  shut.  Pausing  in  the 
illeys  behind  the  closed  Banks  of  mighty  Lombard-street, 

^ t gives  one  as  good  as  a rich  feeling  to  think  of  the  broad 
jounters  with  a rim  along  the  edge,  made  for  telling  money 
)ut  on,  the  scales  for  weighing  precious  metals,  the  pon- 
lerous  ledgers,  and,  above  all,  the  bright  copper  shovels 
or  shovelling  gold.  When  I draw  money,  it  never  seems 
10  much  money  as  when  it  is  shovelled  at  me  out  of  a 


232 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


bright  copper  shovel.  I like  to  say,  In  gold,”  and  to  see 
seven  pounds  musically  pouring  out  of  the  shovel,  like 
seventy;  the  Bank  appearing  to  remark  to  me — I italicise 
appearing — ^^if  you  want  more  of  this  yellow  earth,  we 
keep  it  in  barrows  at  your  service.”  To  think  of  the 
banker’s  clerk  with  his  deft  finger  turning  the  crisp  edges 
of  the  Hundred-Pound  Notes  he  has  taken  in  a fat  roll  out 
of  a drawer,  is  again  to  hear  the  rustling  of  that  delicious 
south-cash  wind.  How  will  you  have  it?  ” I once  heard 
this  usual  question  asked  at  a Bank  Counter  of  an  elderly 
female,  habited  in  mourning  and  steeped  in  simplicity,  who 
answered,  open-eyed,  crook-fingered,  laughing  with  expec- 
tation, ‘^Anyhow!”  Calling  these  things  to  mind  as  I 
stroll  among  the  Banks,  I wonder  whether  the  other  solitary 
Sunday  man  I pass,  has  designs  upon  the  Banks.  For  the 
interest  and  mystery  of  the  matter,  I almost  hope  he  may 
have,  and  that  his  confederate  may  be  at  this  moment  tak- 
ing impressions  of  the  keys  of  the  iron  closets  in  wax,  and 
that  a delightful  robbery  may  be  in  course  of  transaction. 
About  College-hill,  Mark-lane,  and  so  on  towards  the 
Tower,  and  Dockward,  the  deserted  wine-merchants’  cel- 
lars are  fine  subjects  for  consideration;  but  the  deserted 
money-cellars  of  the  Bankers,  and  their  plate  cellars,  and 
their  jewel-cellars,  what  subterranean  regions  of  the  Won- 
derful Lamp  are  these ! And  again : possibly  some  shoe- 
less boy  in  rags,  passed  through  this  street  yesterday,  for 
whom  it  is  reserved  to  be  a Banker  in  the  fulness  of  time, 
and  to  be  surpassing  rich.  Such  reverses  have  been,  since 
the  days  of  Whittington;  and  were,  long  before.  I want 
to  know  Avhether  the  boy  has  any  foreglittering  of  that 
glittering  fortune  now,  when  he  treads  these  stones,  hun- 
gry. Much  as  I also  want  to  know  whether  the  next  man 
to  be  hanged  at  Newgate  yonder,  had  any  suspicion  upon 
him  that  he  was  moving  steadily  towards  that  fate,  when 
he  talked  so  much  about  the  last  man  who  paid  the  same 
great  debt  at  the  same  small  Debtors’  Door. 

Where  are  all  the  people  who  on  busy  working-days  per- 
vade these  scenes?  The  locomotive  banker’s  clerk,  who 
carries  a black  portfolio  chained  to  him  by  a chain  of  steel, 
where  is  he?  Does  he  go  to  bed  with  his  chain  on — to 
church  with  his  chain  on — or  does  he  lay  it  by?  And  if  he 
lays  it  by,  what  becomes  of  his  portfolio  when  he  is  un- 
chained for  a holiday?  The  wastepaper  baskets  of  these 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


233 


elused  <couD ting-houses  would  let  me  into  many  hints  of 
business  matters  if  I had  the  exploration  of  them;  and 
what  secrets  of  the  heart  should  I discover  on  the  pads  ’’ 
of  the  young  clerks — the  sheets  of  cartridge-paper  and 
blotting-paper  interposed  between  their  writing  and  their 
desks!  Pads  are  taken  into  confidence  on  the  tenderest 
occasions,  and  oftentimes  when  I have  made  a business 
visit,  and  have  sent  in  my  name  from  the  outer  office,  have 
I had  it  forced  on  my  discursive  notice  that  the  officiating 
young  gentleman  has  over  and  over  again  inscribed  Amelia, 
in  ink  of  various  dates,  on  corners  of  his  pad.  Indeed,  the 
pad  may  be  regarded  as  the  legitimate  modern  successor  of 
the  old  forest-tree:  whereon  these  young  knights  (having 
no  attainable  forest  nearer  than  Epping)  engrave  the  names 
of  their  mistresses.  After  all,  it  is  a more  satisfactory 
process  than  carving,  and  can  be  oftener  repeated.  So 
these  courts  in  their  Sunday  rest  are  courts  of  Love  Om- 
nipotent (I  rejoice  to  bethink  myself),  dry  as  they  look. 
And  here  is  Garraway’s,  bolted  and  shuttered  hard  and 
Last!  It  is  possible  to  imagine  the  man  who  cuts  the  sand- 
wiches, on  his  back  in  a hayfield;  it  is  possible  to  imagine 
his  desk,  like  the  desk  of  a clerk  at  church,  without  him; 
but  imagination  is  unable  to  pursue  the  men  who  wait  at 
Garraway’s  all  the  week  for  the  men  who  never  come. 
When  they  are  forcibly  put  out  of  Garraway’s  on  Saturday 
night — which  they  must  be,  for  they  never  would  go  out  of 
their  own  accord — where  do  they  vanish  until  Monday 
morning?  On  the  first  Sunday  that  I ever  strayed  here,  I 
expected  to  find  them  hovering  about  these  lanes,  like  rest- 
less ghosts,  and  trying  to  peep  into  Garraway’s  through 
chinks  in  the  shutters,  if  not  endeavouring  to  turn  the  lock 
of  the  door  with  false  keys,  picks,  and  screw-drivers.  But 
the  wonder  is,  that  they  go  clean  away ! And  now  I think 
of  it,  the  wonder  is,  that  every  working- day  pervader  of 
these  scenes  goes  clean  away.  The  man  who  sells  the 
[dogs’  collars  and  the  little  toy  coal-scuttles,  feels  under  as 
great  an  obligation  to  go  afar  off,  as  Glyn  and  Co.,  or 
Smith,  Payne,  and  Smith.  There  is  an  old  monastery- 
crypt  under  Garraway’s  (I  have  been  in  it  among  the  port 
wine),  and  perhaps  Garraway’s,  taking  pity  on  the  mouldy 
men  who  wait  in  its  public-room  all  their  lives,  gives  them 
,cool  house-room  down  there  over  Sundays;  but  the  cata- 
combs of  Paris  would  not  be  large  enough  to  hold  the  rest 


234 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


of  the  missing.  This  characteristic  of  London  City  greatly 
helps  its  being  the  quaint  place  it  is  in  the  weekly  pause  of 
business,  and  greatly  helps  my  Sunday  sensation  in  it  of 
being  the  Last  Man.  In  my  solitude,  the  ticket-porters 
being  all  gone  with  the  rest,  I venture  to  breathe  to  the 
quiet  bricks  and  stones  my  confidential  wonderment  why  a 
ticket-porter,  who  never  does  any  work  with  his  hands,  is 
bound  to  wear  a white  apron,  and  why  a great  Ecclesiasti- 
cal Dignitary,  who  never  does  any  work  with  his  hands 
either,  is  equally  bound  to  wear  a black  one. 


XXIV. 

AN  OLD  STAGE-COACHING  HOUSE. 

Before  the  waitress  had  shut  the  door,  I had  forgotten 
how  many  stage-coaches  she  said  used  to  change  horses  in 
the  town  every  day.  But  it  was  of  little  moment;  any 
high  number  would  do  as  well  as  another.  It  had  been  a 
great  stage-coaching  town  in  the  great  stage-coaching  times, 
and  the  ruthless  railways  had  killed  and  buried  it. 

The  sign  of  the  house  was  the  Dolphin ^s  Head.  Why 
only  head,  I don’t  know;  for  the  Dolphin’s  effigy  at  full 
length,  and  upside  down — as  a Dolphin  is  always  bound  to 
be  when  artistically  treated,  though  I suppose  he  is  some- 
times right  side  upvvard  in  his  natural  condition — graced 
the  sign-board.  The  sign-board  chafed  its  rusty  hooks  out- 
side the  bow- window  of  my  room,  and  was  a shabby  work. 
No  visitor  could  have  denied  that  the  Dolphin  was  dying 
by  inches,  but  he  showed  no  bright  colours.  He  had  once 
served  another  master;  there  was  a newer  streak  of  paint 
below  him,  displaying  with  inconsistent  freshness  the 
legend,  By  J.  Mellows. 

My  door  opened  again,  and  J.  Mellows’s  representative 
came  back.  I had  asked  her  what  I could  have  for  dinner, 
and  she  now  returned  with  the  counter  question,  what 
would  I like?  As  the  Dolphin  stood  possessed  of  nothing 
that  I do  like,  I was  fain  to  yield  to  the  suggestion  of  a 
duck,  which  I don’t  like.  J.  Mellows’s  representative 
was  a mournful  young  woman,  with  one  eye  susceptible  of 
guidance,  and  one  uncontrollable  eye;  which  latter,  seeiiv 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


235 


Lng  to  wander  in  quest  of  stage-coaches,  deepened  the  mel- 
ancholy in  which  the  Dolphin  was  steeped. 

This  young  woman  had  but  shut  the  door  on  retiring 
again  when  I bethought  me  of  adding  to  my  order,  the 
words,  ‘^with  nice  vegetables.”  Looking  out  at  the  door 
to  give  them  emphatic  utterance,  I found  her  already  in  a 
state  of  pensive  catalepsy  in  the  deserted  gallery,  picking 
her  teeth  with  a pin. 

At  the  Railway  Station  seven  miles  off,  I had  been  the 
subject  of  wonder  when  I ordered  a fly  in  which  to  come 
here.  And  when  I gave  the  direction  To  the  Dolphin’s 
Head,”  I had  observed  an  ominous  stare  on  the  countenance 
Df  the  strong  young  man  in  velveteen,  who  was  the  plat- 
form servant  of  the  Company.  He  had  also  called  to  my 
iriver  at  parting,  All  ri-ight!  Don’t  hang  yourself  when 
^ou  get  there,  Geo-o-rge ! ” in  a sarcastic  tone,  for  which  I 
had  entertained  some  transitory  thoughts  of  reporting  him 
bo  the  General  Manager. 

, I had  no  business  in  the  town — I never  have  any  busi- 
ness in  any  town — but  I had  been  caught  by  the  fancy  that 
I would  come  and  look  at  it  in  its  degeneracy.  My  pur- 
pose was  fitly  inaugurated  by  the  Dolphin’s  Head,  which 
3very where  expressed  past  coachfulness  and  present  coach 
iessness.  Coloured  prints  of  coaches,  starting,  arriving, 
3hanging  horses,  coaches  in  the  sunshine,  coaches  in  the 
mow,  coaches  in  the  wind,  coaches  in  the  mist  and  rain, 
ioaches  on  the  King’s  birthday,  coaches  in  all  circumstances 
compatible  with  their  triumph  and  victory,  but  never  in  the 
ict  of  breaking  down  or  overturning,  pervaded  the  house. 
3f  these  works  of  art,  some,  framed  and  not  glazed,  had 
loles  in  them;  the  varnish  of  others  had  become  so  brown 
ind  cracked,  that  they  looked  like  overdone  pie-crust;  the 
designs  of  others  were  almost  obliterated  by  the  flies  of 
nany  summers.  Broken  glasses,  damaged  frames,  lop- 
sided hanging,  and  consignment  of  incurable  cripples  to 
olaces  of  refuge  in  dark  corners,  attested  the  desolation  of 
she  rest.  The  old  room  on  the  ground  floor  where  the  pas- 
sengers of  the  Highflyer  used  to  dine,  had  nothing  in  it  but 
i wretched  show  of  twigs  and  flower-pots  in  the  broad  win- 
iow  to  hide  the  nakedness  of  the  land,  and  in  a corner  little 
VIellows’s  perambulator,  with  even  its  parasol-head  turned 
iespondently  to  the  wall.  The  other  room,  where  post- 
lorse  company  used  to  wait  while  relays  were  getting  ready 


236 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

down  the  yard,  still  held  its  ground,  but  was  as  airless  as 
I conceive  a hearse  to  be:  insomuch  that  Mr.  Pitt,  hanging 
high  against  the  partition  (with  spots  on  him  like  port 
wine,  though  it  is  mysterious  how  port  wine  ever  got 
squirted  up  there),  had  good  reason  for  perking  his  nose 
and  sniffing.  The  stopperless  cruets  on  the  spindle-shanked 
sideboard  were  in  a miserably  dejected  state : the  anchovy 
sauce  having  turned  blue  some  years  ago,  and  the  cayenne 
pepper  (with  a scoop  in  it  like  a small  model  of  a wooden 
leg)  having  turned  solid.  The  old  fraudulent  candles 
which  were  always  being  paid  for  and  never  used,  were 
burnt  out  at  last;  but  their  tall  stilts  of  candlesticks  still 
lingered,  and  still  outraged  the  human  intellect  by  pretend- 
ing to  be  silver.  The  mouldy  old  unreformed  Borough 
Member,  with  his  right  hand  buttoned  up  in  the  breast  of 
his  coat,  and  his  back  characteristically  turned  on  bales  of 
petitions  from  his  constituents,  was  there  too;  and  the  poker 
which  never  had  been  among  the  fire-irons,  lest  post-horse 
company  should  overstif  the  fire,  was  not  there,  as  of  old. 

Pursuing  my  researches  in  the  Dolphin’s  Head,  I found 
it  sorely  shrunken.  When  J.  Mellows  came  into  posses- 
sion, he  had  walled  off  half  the  bar,  which  was  now  a 
tobacco-shop  with  its  own  entrance  in  the  yard — the  once 
glorious  yard  where  the  post-boys,  whip  in  hand  and  always 
buttoning  their  waistcoats  at  the  last  moment,  used  to  come 
running  forth  to  mount  and  away.  A ''  Scientific  Shoeing- 
Smith  and  Veterinary  Surgeon,”  had  further  encroached  ' 
upon  the  yard;  and  a grimly  satirical  Jobber,  who  an- 
nounced himself  as  having  to  Let  A neat  one-horse  fly, 
and  a one-horse  cart,”  had  established  his  business,  him- 
self, and  his  family,  in  a part  of  the  extensive  stables. 
Another  part  was  lopped  clean  off  from  the  Dolphin’s  Head, 
and  now  comprised  a chapel,  a wheelwright’s,  and  a Young 
Men’s  Mutual  Improvement  and  Discussion  Society  (in  a 
loft) : the  whole  forming  a back  lane.  No  audacious  hand 
had  plucked  down  the  vane  from  the  central  cupola  of 
the  stables,  but  it  had  grown  rusty  and  stuck  at  N — Nil  : 
while  the  score  or  two  of  pigeons  that  remained  true  to 
their  ancestral  traditions  and  the  place,  had  collected  in  a 
row  on  the  roof-ridge  of  the  only  out-house  retained  by  the 
Dolphin,  where  all  the  inside  pigeons  tried  to  push  the  out- 
side pigeon  off.  This  I accepted  as  emblematical  of  the 
struggle  for  post  and  place  in  railway  times. 


THE  UKCOMMET^CIAL  TRAVELLER. 


237 


, Sauntering  forth  into  the  town,  by  way  of  the  covered 
md  pillared  entrance  to  the  Dolphin’s  Yard,  once  redolent 
j)f  soup  and  stable-litter,  now  redolent  of  musty  disuse,  I 
oaced  the  street.  It  was  a hot  day,  and  the  little  sun- 
)linds  of  the  shops  were  all  drawn  down,  and  the  more 
mterprising  tradesmen  had  caused  their  ’Prentices  to 
-.rickle  water  on  the  pavement  appertaining  to  their  front- 
ige.  It  looked  as  if  they  had  been  shedding  tears  for  the 
itage-coaches,  and  drying  their  ineffectual  pocket-hand- 
terchiefs.  Such  Aveakness  would  have  been  excusable;  for 
)usiness  was — as  one  dejected  porkman  who  kept  a shop 
which  refused  to  reciprocate  the  compliment  by  keeping 
lim,  informed  me — “bitter  bad.”  Most  of  the  harness- 
nakers  and  corn-dealers  were  gone  the  way  of  the  coaches, 
)ut  it  was  a pleasant  recognition  of  the  eternal  procession 
;)f  Children  down  that  old  original  steep  Incline,  the  Valley 
)f  the  Shadow,  that  those  tradesmen  were  mostly  succeeded 
)y  vendors  of  sweetmeats  and  cheap  toys.  The  opposition 
iiouse  to  the  Dolphin,  once  famous  as  the  New  White  Hart, 
lad  long  collapsed.  In  a fit  of  abject  depression,  it  had 
,iast  whitewash  on  its  windows,  and  boarded  up  its  front 
loor,  and  reduced  itself  to  a side  entrance;  but  even  that 
lad  proved  a world  too  wide  for  the  Literary  Institution 
which  had  been  its  last  phase;  for  the  Institution  had  col- 
apsed too,  and  of  the  ambitious  letters  of  its  inscription 
)n  the  White  Hart’s  front,  all  had  fallen  off  but  these: 

L Y INS  T 

—suggestive  of  Lamentably  Insolvent.  As  to  the  neigh- 
)Ouring  market-place,  it  seemed  to  have  wholly  relinquished 
narketing,  to  the  dealer  in  crockery  whose  pots  and  pans 
itraggled  half  across  it,  and  to  the  Cheap  Jack  who  sat 
with  folded  arms  on  the  shafts  of  his  cart,  superciliously 
gazing  around;  his  velveteen  waistcoat,  evidently  harbour- 
ng  grave  doubts  Avhether  it  was  worth  his  while  to  stay  a 
light  in  such  a place. 

The  church  bells  began  to  ring  as  I left  this  spot,  but 
hey  by  no  means  improved  the  case,  for  they  said,  in  a 
letulant  way,  and  speaking  with  some  difficulty  in  their 
rritation,  “ WnAT’s-be-come-of-THE-coach-ES?  ” Nor 
would  they  (I  found  on  listening)  ever  vary  their  empha- 
is,  save  in  respect  of  growing  more  sharp  and  vexed,  but 
nvariably  went  on,  “ WHAx’s-be-come-of-THE-coach-EsI  ” 


238 


THE  UNCOMIVIERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


—always  beginning  the  inquiry  with  an  unpolite  abrupt- 
ness. Perhaps  from  their  elevation  they  saw  the  railway, 
and  it  aggravated  them. 

Coming  upon  a coachmaker’s  workshop,  I began  to  look 
about  me  with  a revived  spirit,  thinking  that  perchance  I 
might  behold  there  some  remains  of  the  old  times  of  the 
town’s  greatness.  There  was  only  one  man  at  work — a 
dry  inan,  grizzled,  and  far  advanced  in  years,  but  tall  and 
upright,  who,  becoming  aware  of  me  looking  on,  straight- 
ened his  back,  pushed  up  his  spectacles  against  his  brown 
paper  cap,  and  appeared  inclined  to  defy  me.  To  whom  I 
pacifically  said : 

“ Good  day,  sir ! ” 

“ What?  ” said  he. 

“Good  day,  sir.” 

He  seemed  to  consider  about  that,  and  not  to  agree  with 
me. — “ Was  you  a looking  for  anything?  ” he  then  asked, 
in  a pointed  manner. 

“ I was  wondering  whether  there  happened  to  be  any 
fragment  of  an  old  stage-coach  here.” 

“Is  that  all?” 

“That’s  all.” 

“No,  there  ain’t.” 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  say  “ Oh ! ” and  I said  it.  Not 
another  word  did  the  dry  and  grizzled  man  say,  but  bent 
to  his  work  again.  In  the  coach-making  days,  the  coach- 
painters  had  tried  their  brushes  on  a post  beside  him;  and 
quite  a Calendar  of  departed  glories  was  to  be  read  upon 
it,  in  blue  and  yellow  and  red  and  green,  some  inches  thick.  ■ 
Presently  he  looked  up  again. 

“ You  seem  to  have  a deal  of  time  on  your  hands,”  was 
his  querulous  remark. 

I admitted  the  fact. 

“I  think  it’s  a pity  you  was  not  brought  up  to  some-' 
thing,”  said  he. 

I said  I thought  so  too. 

^ Appearing  to  be  informed  with  an  idea,  he  laid  down  I 
his  plane  (for  it  was  a plane  he  was  at  work  with),  pushed 
up  his  spectacles  again,  and  came  to  the  door. 

“Would  a po-shay  do  for  you?  ” he  asked. 

“I  am  not  sure  that  I understand  what  you  mean.” 

“Would  a po-shay,”  said  the  coachmaker,  standing  close 
before  me,  and  folding  his  arms  in  the  manner  of  a cross- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


239 


jxamining  counsel — would  a po-shay  meet  the  views  you 
lave  expressed?  Yes,  or  no? 

''Yes.'' 

"Then  you  keep  straight  along  down  there  till  you  see 
me.  Ton’ll  see  one  if  you  go  fur  enough." 

With  that,  he  turned  me  by  the  shoulder  in  the  direction 

was  to  take,  and  went  in  and  resumed  his  work  against  a 
lackground  of  leaves  and  grapes.  For,  although  he  was  a 
oured  man  and  a discontented,  his  workshop  was  that 
.greeable  mixture  of  town  and  country,  street  and  garden, 
vhich  is  often  to  be  seen  in  a small  English  town. 

I went  the  way  he  had  turned  me,  and  1 came  to  the 
3eer-shop  with  the  sign  of  The  First  and  Last,  and  was 
»ut  of  the  town  on  the  old  London  road.  I came  to  the 
Turnpike,  and  I found  it,  in  its  silent  way,  eloquent  re- 
pecting  the  change  that  had  fallen  on  the  road.  The 
iTurnpike-house  was  all  overgrown  with  ivy;  and  the  Turn- 
)ike-keeper,  unable  to  get  a living  out  of  the  tolls,  plied 
he  trade  of  a cobbler.  Not  only  that,  but  his  wife  sold 
i;inger-beer,  and,  in  the  very  window  of  espial  through 
7hich  the  Toll-takers  of  old  times  used  with  awe  to  behold 
he  grand  London  coaches  coming  on  at  a gallop,  exhib- 
fced  for  sale  little  barber's-poles  of  sweetstuff  in  a sticky 
antern. 

The  political  economy  of  the  master  of  the  turnpike  thus 
xpressed  itself. 

" How  goes  turnpike  business,  master?  " said  I to  him, 
s he  sat  in  his  little  porch,  repairing  a shoe. 

"It  don't  go  at  all,  master,"  said  he  to  me.  "It's 
topped." 

"That's  bad,"  said  I. 

"Bad?"  he  repeated.  And  he  pointed  to  one  of  his  sun- 
•urnt  dusty  children  who  was  climbing  the  turnpike-gate, 
nd  said,  extending  his  open  right  hand  in  remonstrance 
vith  Universal  Nature,  "Five  on  'em!" 

"But  how  to  improve  Turnpike  business?  " said  I. 

"There’s  a way,  master,"  said  he,  with  the  air  of  one 
7ho  had  thought  deeply  on  the  subject. 

" I should  like  to  know  it.  ” 

"Lay  a toll  on  everything  as  comes  through;  lay  a toll 
n walkers.  Lay  another  toll  on  everything  as  don't  come 
hrough;  lay  a toll  on  them  as  stops  at  home." 

" Would  the  last  remedy  be  fair?  " 


240 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Fair?  Them  as  stops  at  home,  could  come  through  if 
they  liked;  couldn^t  they? 

Say  they  could.” 

‘‘Toll  ’em.  If  they  don’t  come  through,  it’s  their  look 
out.  Anyways, — Toll  ’em ! ” 

Finding  it  was  as  impossible  to  argue  with  this  financial 
genius  as  if  he  had  been  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  and 
consequently  the  right  man  in  the  right  place,  I passed  on 
meekly. 

My  mind  now  began  to  misgive  me  that  the  disappointed 
coachmaker  had  sent  me  on  a wild-goose  errand,  and  that 
there  was  no  post-chaise  in  those  parts.  Rut  coming  within 
view  of  certain  allotment-gardens  by  the  roadside,  I re- 
tracted the  suspicion,  and  confessed  that  I had  done  him 
an  injustice.  For,  there  I saw,  surely,  the  poorest  super- 
annuated post-chaise  left  on  earth. 

It  was  a post-chaise  taken  off  its  axletree  and  wheels, 
and  plumped  down  on  the  clayey  soil  among  a ragged 
growth  of  vegetables.  It  was  a post-chaise  not  even  set 
straight  upon  the  ground,  but  tilted  over,  as  if  it  had  fallen 
out  of  a balloon.  It  was  a post-chaise  that  had  been  a 
long  time  in  those  decayed  circumstances,  and  against 
which  scarlet  beans  were  trained.  It  was  a post-chaise 
patched  and  mended  with  old  teatrays,  or  with  scraps  of 
iron  that  looked  like  them,  and  boarded  up  as  to  the  win- 
dows, but  having  a kis-ocker  on  the  off-side  door.  Whether 
it  was  a post-chaise  used  as  tool-house,  summer-house,  or 
dwelling-house,  I could  not  discover,  for  there  was  nobody 
at  home  at  the  post-chaise  when  I knocked;  but  it  was  cer- 
tainly used  for  something,  and  locked  up.  In  the  wonder 
of  this  discovery,  I walked  round  and  round  the  post-chaise 
many  times,  and  sat  down  by  the  post-chaise,  waiting  for 
further  elucidation.  None  came.  At  last,  I made  my  way 
back  to  the  old  London  road  by  the  further  end  of  the  allot- 
ment-gardens, and  consequently  at  a point  beyond  that  from 
which  I had  diverged.  I had  to  scramble  through  a hedge 
and  down  a steep  bank,  and  I nearly  came  down  a-top  of 
a little  spare  man  who  sat  breaking  stones  by  the  road- 
side. 

He  stayed  his  hammer,  and  said,  regarding  me  mysteri- 
ously through  his  dark  goggles  of  wire : 

Are  you  aware,  sir,  that  you’ve  been  trespassing?  ” 

‘^I  turned  out  of  the  way,”  said  I,  in  explanation,  ‘Ho 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


241 


ook  at  that  odd  post-chaise.  Do  you  happen  to  know  any- 
ihiiig  about  it? 

I,  know  it  was  many  a year  upon  the  road,”  said  he. 

So  I supposed.  Do  you  know  to  whom  it  belongs?  ” 

I The  stone-breaker  bent  his  brows  and  goggles  over  his 
-leap  of  stones,  as  if  he  were  considering  whether  he  should 
^nswer  the  question  or  not.  Then,  raising  his  barred  eyes 
► 0 my  features  as  before,  he  said: 

; ‘‘Tome.” 

Being  quite  unprepared  for  the  reply,  I received  it  with 
: : sufficiently  awkward  “ Indeed ! Dear  me ! ” Presently  I 

j.dded,  “Do  you ” I was  going  to  say  “live  there,” 

>ut  it  seemed  so  absurd  a question,  that  I substituted  “live 
■4ear  here?  ” 

The  stone-breaker,  who  had  not  broken  a fragment  since 
j;re  began  to  converse,  then  did  as  follows.  He  raised  him- 
elf  by  poising  his  figure  on  his  hammer,  and  took  his  coat, 
n which  he  had  been  seated,  over  his  arm.  He  then 
jacked  to  an  easier  part  of  the  bank  than  that  by  which  I 
ad  come  down,  keeping  his  dark  goggles  silently  upon  me 

II  the  time,  and  then  shouldered  his  hammer,  suddenly 
turned,  ascended,  and  was  gone.  His  face  was  so  small, 
nd  his  goggles  were  so  large,  that  he  left  me  wholly  unin- 
;!ormed  as  to  his  countenance;  but  he  left  me  a profound 
npression  that  the  curved  legs  I had  seen  from  behind  as. 
e vanished,  were  the  legs  of  an  old  postboy.  It  was  not 
util  then  that  I noticed  he  had  been  working  by  a grass- 
rown  milestone,  which  looked  like  a tombstone  erected 
ver  the  grave  of  the  London  road. 

' My  dinner-hour  being  close  at  hand,  I had  no  leisure  to 
,ursue  the  goggles  or  the  subject  then,  but  made  my  way 
ack  to  the  Dolphin’s  Head.  In  the  gateway  I found  J. 
Tellows,  looking  at  nothing,  and  apparently  experiencing 
lat  it  failed  to  raise  his  spirits. 

^ “/  don’t  care  for  the  town,”  said  J.  Mellows,  when  I 
bmplimented  him  on  the  sanitary  advantages  it  may  or 
^lay  not  possess;  “ I wish  I had  never  seen  the  town ! ” 

“ You  don’t  belong  to  it,  Mr.  Mellows?  ” 

“ Belong  to  it ! ” repeated  Mellows.  “ If  I didn’t  belong 
) a better  style  of  town  than  this,  I’d  take  and  drown  my- 
' 3lf  in  a pail.”  It  then  occurred  to  me  that  Mellows,  hav- 
hg  so  little  to  do,  was  habitually  thrown  back  on  his  inter- 
al  resources — by  which  I mean  the  Dolphin’s  cellar. 

16 


242 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


‘‘What  we  want/’  said  Mellows,  pulling  off  his  hat,  and 
making  as  if  he  emptied  it  of  the  last  load  of  Disgust  that 
had  exuded  from  his  brain,  before  he  put  it  on  again  for 
another  load;  “what  we  want,  is  a Branch.  The  Petition 
for  the  Branch  Bill  is  in  the  coffee-room.  Would  you  put 
your  name  to  it?  Every  little  helps.” 

I found  the  document  in  question  stretched  out  flat  on 
the  coffee-room  table  by  the  aid  of  certain  weights  from  the 
kitchen,  and  I gave  it  the  additional  weight  of  my  uncom- 
mercial signature.  To  the  best  of  my  belief,  I bound  my- 
self to  the  modest  statement  that  universal  traffic,  happi- 
ness, prosperity,  and  civilisation,  together  with  unbounded 
national  triumph  in  competition  with  the  foreigner,  would 
infallibly  flow  from  the  Branch. 

Having  achieved  this  constitutional  feat,  I asked  Mr. 
Mellows  if  he  could  grace  my  dinner  with  a pint  of  good 
wine?  Mr.  Mellows  thus  replied: 

“If  I couldn’t  give  you  a pint  of  good  wine,  I’d — there! 
— I’d  take  and  drown  myself  in  a pail.  But  I was  de- 
ceived when  I bought  this  business,  and  the  stock  was 
higgledy-piggledy,  and  I haven’t  yet  tasted  my  way  quite 
through  it  with  a view  to  sorting  it.  Therefore,  if  you 
order  one  kind  and  get  another,  change  till  it  comes  right. 
For  what,”  said  Mellows,  unloading  his  hat  as  before, 

^ “ what  would  you  or  any  gentleman  do,  if  you  ordered  one 
kind  of  wine  and  was  required  to  drink  another?  Why, 
you’d  (and  naturally  and  properly,  having  the  feelings  of 
a gentleman),  you’d  take  and  drown  yourself  in  a pail ! ” 


XXV. 

THE  BOILED  BEEF  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  shabbiness  of  our  English  capital,  as  compared  with 
Paris,  Bordeaux,  Frankfort,  Milan,  Geneva — almost  any 
important  town  on  the  continent  of  Europe — I find  very 
striking  after  an  absence  of  any  duration  in  foreign  parts. 
London  is  shabby  in  contrast  Avith  Edinburgh,  with  Aber- 
deen, with  Exeter,  with  Liverpool,  with  a bright  little 
town  like  Bury  St.  Edmunds.  London  is  shabby  in  con- 
trast with  New  York,  with  Boston,  with  Philadelphia.  In 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


243 


detail,  one  would  say  it  can  rarely  fail  to  be  a disappoint- 
ing piece  of  shabbiness,  to  a stranger  from  any  of  those 
places.  There  is  nothing  shabbier  than  Drury-lane,  in 
Rome  itself.  The  meanness  of  Regent-street,  set  against 
the  great  line  of  Boulevarts  in  Paris,  is  as  striking  as  the 
abortive  ugliness  of  Trafalgar-square,  set  against  the  gal- 
lant beauty  of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  London  is  shabby 
by  daylight,  and  shabbier  by  gaslight.  No  Englishman 
knows  what  gaslight  is,  until  he  sees  the  Rue  de  Rivoli 
and  the  Palais  Royal  after  dark. 

The  mass  of  London  people  are  shabby.  The  absence 
;of  distinctive  dress  has,  no  doubt,  something  to  do  with  it. 
The  porters  of  the  Vintners’  Company,  the  draymen,  and 
the  butchers,  are  about  the  only  people  who  wear  distinc- 
tive dresses;  and  even  these  do  not  wear  them  on  holidays, 
i We  have  nothing  which  for  cheapness,  cleanliness,  con- 
venience, or  picturesqueness,  can  compare  with  the  belted 
blouse.  As  to  our  women;— next  Easter  or  Whitsuntide, 

I look  at  the  bonnets  at  the  British  Museum  or  the  National 
Gallery,  and  think  of  the  pretty  white  French  cap,  the 
Spanish  mantilla,  or  the  Genoese  mezzero. 

Probably  there  are  not  more  second-hand  clothes  sold  in 
London  than  in  Paris,  and  yet  the  mass  of  the  London 
population  have  a second-hand  look  which  is  not  to  be  de- 
tected on  the  mass  of  the  Parisian  population.  I think 
this  is  mainly  because  a Parisian  workman  does  not  in  the 
least  trouble  himself  about  what  is  worn  by  a Parisian 
idler,  but  dresses  in  the  way  of  his  own  class,  and  for  his 
3wn  comfort.  In  London,  on  the  contrary,  the  fashions 
iescend;  and  you  never  fully  know  how  inconvenient  or 
ddiculous  a fashion  is,  until  you  see  it  in  its  last  descent, 
rt  was  but  the  other  day,  on  a race-course,  that  I observed 
Pour  people  in  a barouche  deriving  great  entertainment 
:rom  the  contemplation  of  four  people  on  foot.  The  four 
people  on  foot  were  two  young  men  and  two  young  women; 
Re  four  people  in  the  barouche  were  two  young  men  and 
^wo  young  women.  The  four  young  women  were  dressed 

II  exactly  the  same  style;  the  four  young  men  were  dressed 
11  exactly  the  same  style.  Yet  the  two  couples  on  wheels 
vere  as  much  amused  by  the  two  couples  on  foot,  as  if  • 
-hey  were  quite  unconscious  of  having  themselves  set  those 
ashions,  or  of  being  at-  that  very  moment  engaged  in  the 
lisplay  of  them. 


244 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Is  it  only  in  the  matter  of  clothes  that  fashion  descends 
here  in  London — and  consequently  in  England — and  thence 
shabbiness  arises?  Let  us  think  a little,  and  be  just.  The 
Black  Country  round  about  Birmingham,  is  a very  black 
country;  but  is  it  quite  as  black  as  it  has  been  lately 
painted?  An  appalling  accident  happened  at  the  People^s 
Park  near  Birmingham,  this  last  July,  when  it  was  crowded 
with  people  from  the  Black  Country — ^an  appalling  accident 
consequent  on  a shamefully  dangerous  exhibition.  Did  the 
shamefully  dangerous  exhibition  originate  in  the  moral 
blackness  of  the  Black  Country,  and  in  the  Black  People^  s 
peculiar  love  of  the  excitement  attendant  on  great  personal 
hazard,  which  they  looked  on  at,  but  in  which  they  did  not 
participate?  Light  is  much  wanted  in  the  Black  Country. 
O we  are  all  agreed  on  that.  But,  we  must  not  quite  for- 
get the  crowds  of  gentlefolks  who  set  the  shamefully  dan- 
gerous fashion,  either.  We  must  not  quite  forget  the 
enterprising  Directors  of  an  Institution  vaunting  mighty 
educational  pretences,  who  made  the  low  sensation  as  strong 
as  they  possibly  could  make  it,  by  hanging  the  Blondin 
rope  as  high  as  they  possibly  could  hang  it.  All  this  must 
not  be  eclipsed  in  the  Blackness  of  the  Black  Country. 
The  reserved  seats  high  up  by  the  rope,  the  cleared  space 
below  it,  so  that  no  one  should  be  smashed  but  the  per- 
former, the  pretence  of  slipping  and  falling  olf,  the  baskets 
for  the  feet  and  the  sack  for  the  head,  the  photographs 
everywhere,  and  the  virtuous  indignation  nowhere — all  this 
must  not  be  wholly  swallowed  up  in  the  blackness  of  the 
jet-black  country. 

Whatsoever  fashion  is  set  in  England,  is  certain  to  de- 
scend. This  is  a text  for  a perpetual  sermon  on  care  in 
setting  fashions.  When  you  find  a fashion  low  down,  look 
back  for  the  time  (it  will  never  be  far  off)  when  it  was  the 
fashion  high  up.  This  is  the  text  for  a perpetual  sermon 
on  social  justice.  From  imitations  of  Ethiopian  Serenaders, 
to  imitations  of  Prince’s  coats  and  waistcoats,  you  will 
find  the  original  model  in  St.  James’s  Parish.  When  the 
Serenaders  become  tiresome,  trace  them  beyond  the  Black 
Country;  when  the  coats  and  waistcoats  become  insupport- 
able, refer  them  to  their  source  in  the  Upper  Toady  Regions. 

Gentlemen’s  clubs  were  once  maintained  for  purposes  of 
savage  party  warfare;  working  men’s  clubs  of  the  same 
day  assumed  the  same  character.  Gentlemen’s  clubs  be 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


245 


came  places  of  quiet  inoffensive  recreation;  working  men\s 
clubs  began  to  follow  suit.  If  working  men  have  seemed 
rather  slow  to  appreciate  advantages  of  combination  which 
have  saved  the  pockets  of  gentlemen,  and  enhanced  their 
comforts,  it  is  because  working  men  could  scarcely,  for 
want  of  capital,  originate  such  combinations  without  help; 
and  because  help  has  not  been  separable  from  that  great 
impertinence.  Patronage.  The  instinctive  revolt  of  his 
spirit  against  patronage,  is  a quality  much  to  be  respected 
in  the  English  working  man.  It  is  the  base  of  the  base  of 
his  best  qualities.  Nor  is  it  surprising  that  he  should  be 
, unduly  suspicious  of  patronage,  and  sometimes  resentful  of 
' it  even  where  it  is  not,  seeing  what  a flood  of  washy  talk 
has  been  let  loose  on  his  devoted  head,  or  with  what  com- 
placent condescension  the  same  devoted  head  has  been 
smoothed  and  patted.  It  is  a proof  to  me  of  his  self- 
control  that  he  never  strikes  out  pugilistically,  right  and 
left,  when  addressed  as  one  of  My  friends,”  or  ^^My  as- 
jsembled  friends;  ” that  he  does  not  become  inappeasable, 
'and  run  amuck  like  a Malay,  whenever  he  sees  a biped  in 
broadcloth  getting  on  a platform  to  talk  to  him;  that  any 
pretence  of  improving  his  mind,  does  not  instantly  drive 
him  out  of  his  mind,  and  cause  him  to  toss  his  obliging 
^patron  like  a mad  bull. 

For,  how  often  have  I heard  the  unfortunate  working 
man  lectured,  as  if  he  were  a little  charity-child,  humid 
as  to  his  nasal  development,  strictly  literal  as  to  his  Cate- 
,chism,  and  called  by  Providence  to  walk  all  his  days  in  a 
station  in  life  represented  on  festive  occasions  by  a mug  of 
warm  milk-and-water  and  a bun!  What  popguns  of  jokes 
have  these  ears  tingled  to  hear  let  off  at  him,  what  asinine 
^sentiments,  what  impotent  conclusions,  what  spelling-book 
moralities,  what  adaptations  of  the  orator’s  insufferable 
tediousness  to  the  assumed  level  of  his  understanding ! If 
his  sledge-hammers,  his  spades  and  pick-axes,  his  saws 
land  chisels,  his  paint-pots  and  brushes,  his  forges,  fur- 
naces, and  engines,  the  horses  that  he  drove  at  his  work, 
and  the  machines  that  drove  him  at  his  work,  were  all  toys 
in  one  little  paper  box,  and  he  the  baby  who  played  with 
them,  he  could  not  have  been  discoursed  to,  more  imperti-  ^ 
nently  and  absurdly  than  I have  heard  him  discoursed  to 
.times  innumerable.  Consequently,  not  being  a fool  or  a 
fawner,  he  has  come  to  acknowledge  his  patronage  by  virtu- 


246 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


ally  saying:  ‘‘Let  me  alone.  If  you  understand  me  no 

better  than  that^  sir  and  madam,  let  me  alone.  You  mean 
very  well,  I dare  say,  but  I don’t  like  it,  and  I won’t  come 
here  again  to  have  any  more  of  it.” 

Whatever  is  done  for  the  comfort  and  advancement  of 
the  working  man  must  be  so  far  done  by  himself  as  that  it 
is  maintained  by  himself.  And  there  must  be  in  it  no 
touch  of  condescension,  no  shadow  of  patronage.  In  the 
great  working  districts,  this  truth  is  studied  and  under- 
stood. When  the  American  civil  war  rendered  it  necessary, 
first  in  Glasgow,  and  afterwards  in  Manchester,  that  the 
working  people  should  be  shown  how  to  avail  themselves 
of  the  advantages  derivable  from  system,  and  from  the 
combination  of  numbers,  in  the  purchase  and  the  cooking 
of  their  food,  this  truth  was  above  all  things  borne  in  mind. 
The  quick  consequence  was,  that  suspicion  and  reluctance 
were  vanquished,  and  that  the  effort  resulted  in  an  aston- 
ishing and  a complete  success. 

Such  thoughts  passed  through  my  mind  on  a July  morn- 
ing of  this  summer,  as  I walked  towards  Commercial-street 
(not  Uncommercial-street),  Whitechapel.  The  Glasgow 
and  Manchester  system  had  been  lately  set  a going  there, 
by  certain  gentlemen  who  felt  an  interest  in  its  diffusion, 
and  I had  been  attracted  by  the  following  hand-bill  printed 
on  rose-coloured  paper : 

SELF-SUPPORTING 
COOKING  DEPOT 
FOR  THE  WORKING  CLASSES, 
Commercial-street,  Whitechapel, 

Where  Accommodation  is  provided  for  Dining  comfortably  300 
Persons  at  a time. 

Open  from  7 a.m.  till  7 p.m. 

PRICES. 

All  Articles  of  the  Best  Quality. 

Cup  of  Tea  or  Coffee 

Bread  and  Butter, 

Bread  and  Cheese, 

Slice  of  Bread,  . . One  half-penny  or 

Boiled  Egg, 

Ginger  Beer, 

The  above  Articles  always  recwiy. 


One  Penny 
One  Penny 
One  Penny 
One  Penny 
One  Penny 
One  Penny 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


247 


Besides  the  above  may  be  had,  from  12  to  3 o’clock, 


As  the  Economy  of  Cooking  depends  greatly  upon  the 
simplicity  of  the  arrangements  with  which  a great  number 
of  persons  can  be  served  at  one  time,  the  Upper  Room  of 
this  Establishment  will  be  especially  set  apart  for  a 


Public  DINNER  every  Day 
From  12  till  3 o’clock. 
Consisting  of  the  following  Dishes  : 

Bowl  of  Broth,  or  Soup, 

Plate  of  Cold  Beef  or  Ham, 
Plate  of  Potatoes, 

Plum  Pudding,  or  Rice, 

FIXED  CHARGE  ^ d. 

THE  DAILY  PAPERS  PROVIDED. 


N.B. — This  Establishment  is  conducted  on  the  strictest 
business  principles,  with  the  full  intention  of  making  it 
self-supporting,  so  that  every  one  may  frequent  it  with  a 
feeling  of  perfect  independence. 

The  assistance  of  all  frequenting  the  Depot  is  confidently 
expected  in  checking  anything  interfering  with  the  com- 
fort, quiet,  and  regularity  of  the  establishment. 

Please  do  not  destroy  this  Hand  Bill,  but  hand  it  to 
some  other  person  whom  it  may  interest. 

This  Self-Supporting  Cooking  Depot  (not  a very  good 
name,  and  one  would  rather  give  it  an  English  one)  had 
hired  a newly-built  warehouse  that  it  found  to  let;  there- 
fore it  was  not  established  in  premises  specially  designed 
for  the  purpose.  But,  at  a small  cost  they  were  exceed- 
ingly well  adapted  to  the  purpose ; being  light,  well  venti- 
lated, clean,  and  cheerful.  They  consisted  of  three  large 
rooms.  That  on  the  basement  story  was  the  kitchen;  that 
on  the  ground  floor,  was  the  general  dining-room;  that  on 
the  floor  above  was  the  Upper  Room  referred  to  in  the 
hand-bill,  where  the  Public  Dinner  at  fourpence-halfpenny 


Bowl  of  Scotch  Broth,  . 

Bowl  of  Soup, 

Plate  of  Potatoes, 

Plate  of  Minced  Beef,  • 

Plate  of  Cold  Beef, 

Plate  of  Cold  Ham, 

Plate  of  Plum  Pudding  or  Rice, 


One  Penny 
One  Penny 
One  Penny 
Twopence 
Twopence 
Twopence 
One  Penny 


248 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


a head  was  provided  every  day.  The  cooking  was  done, 
with  much  economy  of  space  and  fuel,  by  American  cooking- 
stoves,  and  by  young  women  not  previously  brought  up  as 
cooks;  the  walls  and  pillars  of  the  two  dining-rooms  were 
agreeably  brightened  with  ornamental  colours;  the  tables 
were  capable  of  accommodating  six  or  eight  persons  each; 
the  attendants  were  all  young  women,  becomingly  and 
neatly  dressed,  and  dressed  alike.  I think  the  whole  staff 
was  female,  with  the  exception  of  the  steward  or  manager. 

My  first  inquiries  were  directed  to  the  wages  of  this 
staff;  because,  if  an  y establishment  claiming  to  be  self- 
supporting,  live  upon  the  spoliation  of  anybody  or  any- 
thing, or  eke  out  a feeble  existence  by  poor  mouths  and 
beggarly  resources  (as  too  many  so-called  Mechanics’  Insti- 
tutions do),  I make  bold  to  express  my  Uncommercial 
opinion  that  it  has  no  business  to  live,  and  had  better  die. 
It  was  made  clear  to  me  by  the  account  books,  that  every 
person  employed  was  properly  paid.  My  next  inquiries 
were  directed  to  the  quality  of  the  provisions  purchased, 
and  to  the  terms  on  which  they  were  bought.  It  was  made 
equally  clear  to  me  that  the  quality  was  the  very  best,  and 
that  all  bills  were  paid  weekly.  My  next  inquiries  were 
directed  to  the  balance-sheet  for  the  last  two  weeks — only 
the  third  and  fourth  of  the  establishment’s  career.  It  was 
made  equally  clear  to  me,  that  after  everything  bought 
was  paid  for,  and  after  each  week  was  charged  with  its  full 
share  of  wages,  rent  and  taxes,  depreciation  of  plant  in 
use,  and  interest  on  capital  at  the  rate  of  four  per  cent  per 
annum,  the  last  week  had  yielded  a profit  of  (in  round 
numbers)  one  pound  ten;  and  the  previous  week  a profit  of 
six  pounds  ten.  By  this  time  I felt  that  I had  a healthy 
appetite  for  the  dinners. 

It  had  just  struck  twelve,  and  a quick  succession  of  faces 
had  already  begun  to  appear  at  a little  window  in  the  wall 
of  the  partitioned  space  where  I sat  looking  over  the  books. 
Within  this  little  window,  like  a pay-box  at  a theatre,  a 
neat  and  brisk  young  woman  presided  to  take  money  and 
issue  tickets.  Every  one  coming  in  must  take  a ticket. 
Either  the  fourpence-halfpenny  ticket  for  the  upper  room 
(the  most  popular  ticket,  I think),  or  a penny  ticket  for  a 
bowl  of  soup,  or  as  many  penny  tickets  as  he  or  she  chose 
to  buy.  For  three  penny  tickets  one  had  quite  a wide 
range  of  choice.  A plate  of  cold  boiled  beef  ami  potatoes; 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


249 


or  a plate  of  cold  ham  and  potatoes;  or  a plate  of  hot 
minced  beef  and  potatoes;  or  a bowl  of  soup,  bread  and 
cheese,  and  a plate  of  plum-pudding.  Touching  what  they 
should  have,  some  customers  on  taking  their  seats  fell  into 
a reverie — became  mildly  distracted — postponed  decision, 
and  said  in  bewilderment,  they  would  think  of  it.  One  old 
man  I noticed  when  I sat  among  the  tables  in  the  lower 
room,  who  was  startled  by  the  bill  of  fare,  and  sat  contem- 
plating it  as  if  it  were  something  of  a ghostly  nature.  The 
decision  of  the  boys  was  as  rapid  as  their  execution,  and 
always  included  pudding. 

There  were  several  women  among  the  diners,  and  several 
clerks  and  shopmen.  There  were  carpenters  and  painters 
from  the  neighbouring  buildings  under  repair,  and  there 
were  nautical  men,  and  there  were,  as  one  diner  observed 
to  me,  ^‘some  of  most  sorts.’’  Some  were  solitary,  some 
came  two  together,  some  dined  in  parties  of  three  or  four, 
or  six.  The  latter  talked  together,  but  assuredly  no  one 
was  louder  than  at  my  club  in  Pall-Mall.  One  young  fel- 
' low  whistled  in  rather  a shrill  manner  while  he  waited  for 
his  dinner,  but  I was  gratified  to  observe  that  he  did  so  in 
evident  defiance  of  my  Uncommercial  individuality.  Quite 
agreeing  with  him,  on  consideration,  that  I had  no  business 
to  be  there,  unless  I dined  like  the  rest,  I ^‘went  in,”  as 
the  phrase  is,  for  fourpence-halfpenny. 

The  room  of  the  fourpence-halfpenny  banquet  had,  like 
the  lower  room,  a counter  in  it,  on  which  were  ranged  a 
great  number  of  cold  portions  ready  for  distribution.  Be- 
hind this  counter,  the  fragrant  soup  was  steaming  in  deep 
cans,  and  the  best-cooked  of  potatoes  were  fished  out  of 
similar  receptacles.  Nothing  to  eat  was  touched  with  the 
hand.  Every  waitress  had  her  own  tables  to  attend  to. 
As  soon  as  she  saw  a new  customer  seat  himself  at  one  of 
her  tables,  she  took  from  the  counter  all  his  dinner — his 
soup,  potatoes,  meat,  and  pudding — piled  it  up  dexterously 
in  her  two  hands,  set  it  before  him,  and  took  his  ticket. 
This  serving  of  the  whole  dinner  at  once,  had  been  found 
greatly  to  simplify  the  business  of  attendance,  and  was 
also  popular  with  the  customers : who  were  thus  enabled 
to  vary  the  meal  by  varying  the  routine  of  dishes : begin- 
ning with  soup  to-day,  putting  soup  in  the  middle  to-* 
morrow,  putting  soup  at  the  end  the  day  after  to-morrow, 
and  ringing  similar  changes  on  meat  and  pudding.  The 


250 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

rapidity  with  which  every  new  comer  got  served,  was  re- 
maikable;  aiid  the  dexterity  with  which  the  waitresses 
(quite  new  to  the  art  a month  before)  discharged  their 
duty,  was  as  agreeable  to  see,  as  the  neat  smartness 
with  which  they  wore  their  dress  and  had  dressed  their 
hair. 

If  I seldom  saw  better  waiting,  so  I certainly  never  ate 
better  meat,  potatoes,  or  pudding.  And  the  soup  was  an 
honest  and  stout  soup,  with  rice  and  barley  in  it,  and  lit- 
tle matters  for  the  teeth  to  touch, as  had  been  observed  to 
me  by  my  friend  below  stairs  already  quoted . The  dinner- 
service,  too,  was  neither  conspicuously  hideous  for  High 
Art  nor  for  Low  Art,  but  was  of  a pleasant  and  pure  ap- 
pearance. Concerning  the  viands  and  their  cookery,  one 
last  remark.  I dined  at  my  club  in  Pall-Mall  aforesaid,  a 
few  days  afterwards,  for  exactly  twelve  times  the  money 
and  not  half  as  well.  ^ 

The  company  thickened  after  one  o'clock  struck,  and 
changed  pretty  quickly.  Although  experience  of  the  place 
had  been  so  recently  attainable,  and  although  there  was 
still  considerable  curiosity  out  in  the  street  and  about  the 
entrance,  the  general  tone  was  as  good  as  could  be,  and  the 
customers  fell  easily  into  the  ways  of  the  place.  It  was 
clear  to  me,  however,  that  they  were  there  to  have  what 
they  paid  for,  and  to  be  on  an  independent  footing.  To 
the  best  of  my  judgment,  they  might  be  patronised  out  of 
the  building  in  a month.  With  judicious  visiting,  and  by 
dint  of  being  questioned,  read  to,  and  talked  at,  they  might 
even  be  got  rid  of  (for  the  next  quarter  of  a century)  in 
half  the  time. 

This  disinterested  and  wise  movement  is  fraught  with  so 
many  wholesome  changes  in  the  lives  of  the  working  people, 
and  with  so  much  good  in  the  way  of  overcoming  that 
suspicion  which  our  own  unconscious  impertinence  has  en- 
gendered, that  it  is  scarcely  gracious  to  criticise  details  as 
yet;  the  rather,  because  it  is  indisputable  that  the  mana- 
gers of  the  Whitechapel  establishment  most  thoroughly  feel 
that  they  are  upon  their  honour  with  the  customers,  as  to 
the  minutest  points  of  administration.  But,  although  the 
American  stoves  cannot  roast,  they  can  surely  boil  one  kind 
of  meat  as  well  as  another,  and  need  not  always  circum- 
scribe their  boiling  talents  within  the  limits  of  ham  and 
beef-  The  most  enthusiastic  admirer  of  those  substantials. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


251 


would  probably  not  object  to  occasional  inconstancy  in  re- 
spect of  pork  and  mutton : or,  especially  in  cold  weather, 
to  a little  innocent  trifling  with  Irish  stews,  meat  pies,  and 
toads  in  holes.  Another  drawback  on  the  Whitechapel 
establishment,  is  the  absence  of  beer.  Regarded  merely 
as  a question  of  policy,  it  is  very  impolitic,  as  having  a 
tendency  to  send  the  working  men  to  the  public-house, 
where  gin  is  reported  to  be  sold.  But,  there  is  a much 
higher  ground  on  which  this  absence  of  beer  is  objection- 
able. It  expresses  distrust  of  the  working  man.  It  is  a 
fragment  of  that  old  mantle  of  patronage  in  which  so  many 
estimable  Thugs,  so  darkly  wandering  up  and  down  the 
moral  world,  are  sworn  to  muffle  him.  Good  beer  is  a 
^ood  thing  for  him,  he  says,  and  he  likes  it;  the  Depot  could 
^ive  it  him  good,  and  he  now  gets  it  bad.  Why  does  the 
Depot  not  give  it  him  good?  Because  he  would  get  drunk. 
Why  does  the  Depot  not  let  him  have  a pint  with  his  din- 
aer,  which  would  not  make  him  drunk?  Because  he  might 
iiave  had  another  pint,  or  another  two  pints,  before  he 
bame.  Now,  this  distrust  is  an  affront,  is  exceedingly 
nconsistent  with  the  confidence  the  managers  express  in 
:heir  hand-bills,  and  is  a timid  stopping-short  upon  the 
straight  highway.  It  is  unjust  and  unreasonable,  also.  It 
s unjust,  because  it  punishes  the  sober  man  for  the  vice  of 
she  drunken  man.  It  is  unreasonable,  because  any  one  at 
ill  experienced  in  such  things  knows  that  the  drunken 
workman  does  not  get  drunk  where  he  goes  to  eat  and 
Irink,  but  where  he  goes  to  drink — expressly  to  drink.  To 
mppose  that  the  working  man  cannot  state  this  question  to 
limself  quite  as  plainly  as  I state  it  here,  is  to  suppose  that 
le  is  a baby,  and  is  again  to  tell  him  in  the  old  wearisome 
condescending  patronising  way  that  he  must  be  goody- 
Doody,  and  do  as  he  is  toldy-poldy,  and  not  be  a manny- 
Danny  or  a voter-poter,  but  fold  his  handy-pandys,  and  be 
i childy-pildy. 

I found  from  the  accounts  of  the  Whitechapel  Self- 
supporting  Cooking  Depot,  that  every  article  sold  in  it, 
even  at  the  prices  I have  quoted,  yields  a certain  small 
)rofit!  Individual  speculators  are  of  course  already  in  the 
ield,  and  are  of  course  already  appropriating  the  name. 
Che  classes  for  whose  benefit  the  real  depots  are  designed, 
vill  distinguish  between  the  two  kinds  of  enterprise. 


252 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


XXVI. 

CHATHAM  DOCKYARD. 

There  are  some  small  out-of-the-way  landing-places  on 
the  Thames  and  the  Medway,  where  I do  much  of  my 
summer  idling.  Running  water  is  favourable  to  day- 
dreams, and  a strong  tidal  river  is  the  best  of  running 
water  for  mine=  I like  to  watch  the  great  ships  standing 
out  to  sea  or  coming  home  richly  laden,  the  active  little 
steam- tugs  confidently  puffing  with  them  to  and  from  the 
sea- horizon,  the  fleet  of  barges  that  seem  to  have  plucked 
their  brown  and  russet  sails  from  the  ripe  trees  in  the  land- 
scape, the  heavy  old  colliers,  light  in  ballast,  floundering 
down  before  the  tide,  the  light  screw  barks  and  schooners 
imperiously  holding  a straight  course  while  the  others  pa- 
tiently tack  and  go  about,  the  yachts  with  their  tiny  hulls 
and  great  white  sheets  of  canvas,  the  little  sailing-boats 
bobbing  to  and  fro  on.  their  errands  of  pleasure  or  business, 
and — as  it  is  the  nature  of  little  people  to  do — making  a 
prodigious  fuss  about  their  small  affairs.  Watching  these 
objects,  I still  am  under  no  obligation  to  think  about  them, 
or  even  so  much  as  to  see  them,  unless  it  perfectly  suits 
my  humour.  As  little  am  I obliged  to  hear  the  plash  and 
flop  of  the  tide,  the  ripple  at  my  feet,  the  clinking  wind- 
lass afar  off,  or  the  humming  steam-ship  paddles  further 
away  yet.  These,  with  the  creaking  little  jetty  on  which 
I sit,  and  the  gaunt  high-water  marks  and  low- water  marks 
in  the  mud,  and  the  broken  causeway,  and  the  broken  bank, 
and  the  broken  stakes  and  piles  leaning  forward  as  if  they 
were  vain  of  their  personal  appearance  and  looking  for  their 
reflection  in  the  water,  will  melt  into  any  train  of  fancy. 
Equally  adaptable  to  any  purpose  or  to  none,  are  the  pas- 
turing sheep  and  kine  upon  the  marshes,  the  gulls  that 
wheel  and  dip  around  me,  the  crows  (well  out  of  gunshot) 
going  home  from  the  rich  harvest-fields,  the  heron  that  has 
been  out  a fishing  and  looks  as  melancholy,  up  there  in  the 
sky,  as  if  it  hadn’t  agreed  with  him.  Everything  within 
the  range  of  the  senses  will,  by  the  aid  of  the  running 


THE  UNCOMx>IERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


253 


water,  lend  itself  to  everything  beyond  that  range,  and 
work  into  a drowsy  whole,  not  unlike  a kind  of  tune,  but 
for  which  there  is  no  exact  definition. 

One  of  these  landing-places  is  near  an  old  fort  (I  can 
see  the  Nore  Light  from  it  with  my  pocket-glass),  from 
which  fort  mysteriously  emerges  a boy,  to  whom  I am 
much  indebted  for  additions  to  my  scanty  stock  of  knowl- 
edge. He  is  a young  boy,  with  an  intelligent  face  burnt 
to  a dust  colour  by  the  summer  sun,  and  with  crisp  hair  of 
the  same  hue.  He  is  a boy  in  whom  I have  perceived 
nothing  incompatible  with  habits  of  studious  inquiry  and 
^meditation,  unless  an  evanescent  black  eye  (I  was  delicate 
hf  inquiring  how  occasioned)  should  be  so  considered.  To 
him  am  I indebted  for  ability  to  identify  a Custom-house 
boat  at  any  distance,  and  for  acquaintance  with  all  the 
forms  and  ceremonies  observed  by  a homeward  bound  In- 
fiiaman  coming  up  the  river,  when  the  Custom-house  officers 
go  aboard  her.  But  for  him,  I might  never  have  heard  of 
|‘^the  dumb-ague,’^  respecting  which  malady  I am  now 
learned.  Had  I never  sat  at  his  feet,  I might  have  finished 
my  mortal  career  and  never  known  that  when  I see  a white 
horse  on  a barge’s  sail,  that  barge  is  a lime  barge.  For 
precious  secrets  in  reference  to  beer,  am  I likewise  beholden 
to  him,  involving  warning  against  the  beer  of  a certain 
establishment,  by  reason  of  its  having  turned  sour  through 
failure  in  point  of  demand;  though  my  young  sage  is  not 
of  opinion  that  similar  deterioration  has  befallen  the  ale. 
He  has  also  enlightened  me  touching  the  mushrooms  of  the 
marshes,  and  has  gently  reproved  my  ignorance  in  having 
supposed  them  to  be  impregnated  with  salt.  His  manner 
Df  imparting  information,  is  thoughtful,  and  appropriate  to 
■ he  scene.  As  he  reclines  beside  me,  he  pitches  into  the 
liver,  a little  stone  or  piece  of  grit,  and  then  delivers  him- 
self oracularly,  as  though  he  spoke  out  of  the  centre  of  the 
spreading  circle  that  it  makes  in  the  water.  He  never  im- 
bnoves  my  mind  without  observing  this  formula. 

With  the  wise  boy — whom  I know  by  no  other  name 
:han  the  Spirit  of  the  Fort — I recently  consorted  on  a 
Dreezy  day  when  the  river  leaped  about  us  and  was  full  of 
■ife.  I had  seen  the  sheaved  corn  carrying  in  the  golden  . 
ields  as  I came  down  to  the  river;  and  the  rosy  farmer, 
watching  his  labouring-men  in  the  saddle  on  his  cob,  had 
>old  me  how  he  had  reaped  his  two  hundred  and  sixty  acres 


254 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


of  long-strawed  com  last  week,  and  how  a better  week’s 
work  he  had  never  done  in  all  his  days.  Peace  and  abun- 
dance were  on  the  country-side  in  beautiful  forms  and 
beautiful  colours,  and  the  harvest  seemed  even  to  be  sail- 
ing out  to  grace  the  never-reaped  sea  in  the  yellow-laden 
barges  that  mellowed  the  distance. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  the  Spirit  of  the  Fort,  direct- 
ing his  remarks  to  a certain  floating  iron  battery  lately 
lying  in  that  reach  of  the  river,  enriched  my  mind  with  his 
opinions  on  naval  architecture,  and  informed  me  that  he 
would  like  to  be  an  engineer.  I found  him  up  to  every- 
thing that  is  done  in  the  contracting  line  by  Messrs.  Peto 
and  Brassey — cunning  in  the  article  of  concrete — mellow 
in  the  matter  of  iron — great  on  the  subject  of  gunnery. 
When  he  spoke  of  pile-driving  and  sluice-making,  he  left 
me  not  a leg  to  stand  on,  and  I can  never  sufficiently 
acknowledge  his  forbearance  with  me  in  my  disabled  state. 
While  he  thus  discoursed,  he  several  times  directed  his 
eyes  to  one  distant  quarter  of  the  landscape,  and  spoke 
with  vague  mysterious  awe  of  ^Hhe  Yard.”  Pondering  his 
lessons  after  we  had  parted,  I bethought  me  that  the  Yard 
was  one  of  our  large  public  Dockyards,  and  that  it  lay  hid- 
den among  the  crops  down  in  the  dip  behind  the  windmills, 
as  if  it  modestly  kept  itself  out  of  view  in  peaceful  times, 
and  sought  to  trouble  no  man.  Taken  with  this  modesty 
on  the  part  of  the  Yard,  I resolved  to  improve  the  Yard’s 
acquaintance. 

My  good  opinion  of  the  Yard’s  retiring  character  was  not 
dashed  by  nearer  approach.  It  resounded  with  the  noise 
of  hammers  beating  upon  iron;  and  the  great  sheds  or  slips 
under  which  the  mighty  men-of-war  are  built,  loomed  busi- 
ness-like when  contemplated  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river.  For  all  that,  however,  the  Yard  made  no  display, 
but  kept  itself  snug  under  hill-sides  of  corn-fields,  hop- 
gardens, and  orchards;  its  great  chimneys  smoking  with 
a quiet— almost  a lazy — air,  like  giants  smoking  tobacco; 
and  the  great  Shears  moored  off  it,  looking  meekly  and  in- 
offensively out  of  proportion,  like  the  Giraffe  of  the  machin- 
er}"  creation.  The  store  of  cannon  on  the  neighbouring 
gun-wharf,  had  an  innocent  toy-like  appearance,  and  the 
one  red-coated  sentry  on  duty  over  them  was  a mere  toy 
figure,  with  a clock-work  movement.  As  the  hot  sunlight 
sparkled  on  him  he  might  have  passed  for  the  identical 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


256 


little  man  who  had  the  little  gun,  and  whose  bullets  they 
were  made  of  lead,  lead,  lead. 

Crossing  the  river  and  landing  at  the  Stairs,  where  a 
drift  of  chips  and  weed  had  been  trying  to  land  before  me 
and  had  not  succeeded,  but  had  got  into  a corner  instead,  I 
found  the  very  street  posts  to  be  cannon,  and  the  architect- 
ural ornaments  to  be  shells.  And  so  I came  to  the  Yard, 

, which  was  shut  up  tight  and  strong  with  great  folded  gates, 
like  an  enormous  patent  safe.  These  gates  devouring  me, 
I became  digested  into  the  Yard;  and  it  had,  at  first,  a 
clean-swept  holiday  air,  as  if  it  had  given  over  work  until 
next  war-time.  Though  indeed  a quantity  of  hemp  for 
rope  was  tumbling  out  of  store-houses,  even  there,  which 
would  hardly  be  lying  like  so  much  hay  on  the  white  stones 
if  the  Yard  were  as  placid  as  it  pretended. 

Ding,  Clash,  Dong,  Bang,  Boom,  Rattle,  Clash,  Bang, 
Clink,  Bang,  Dong,  Bang,  Clatter,  bang,  bang,  BANG! 
What  on  earth  is  this ! This  is,  or  soon  will  be,  the  Achil- 
les, iron  armour-plated  ship.  Twelve  hundred  men  are 
working  at  her  now;  twelve  hundred  men  working  on  stages 
over  her  sides,  over  her  bows,  over  her  stern,  under  her 
keel,  between  her  decks,  down  in  her  hold,  within  her  and 
without,  crawling  and  creeping  into  the  finest  curves  of 
her  lines  wherever  it  is  possibly  for  men  to  twist.  Twelve 
hundred  hammerers,  measurers,  caulkers,  armourers,  forg- 
ers, smiths,  shipwrights;  twelve  hundred  dingers,  dashers, 
dongers,  rattlers,  clinkers,  bangers  bangers  bangers!  Yet 
all  this  stupendous  uproar  around  the  rising  Achilles  is  as 
nothing  to  the  reverberations  with  which  the  perfected 
Achilles  shall  resound  upon  the  dreadful  day  when  the  full 
work  is  in  hand  for  which  this  is  but  note  of  preparation — 
the  day  when  the  scuppers  that  are  now  fitting  like  great 
dry  thirsty  conduit-pipes,  shall  run  red.  All  these  busy 
figures  between  decks,  dimly  seen  bending  at  their  work  in 
smoke  and  fire,  are  as  nothing  to  the  figures  that  shall  do 
work  here  of  another  kind  in  smoke  and  fire,  that  day. 
These  steam-worked  engines  alongside,  helping  the  ship 
by  travelling  to  and  fro,  and  wafting  tons  of  iron  plates 
about,  as  though  they  were  so  many  leaves  of  trees,  would 
be  rent  limb  from  limb  if  they  stood  by  her  for  a minute 
then.  To  think  that  this  Achilles,  monstrous  compound  o^ 
iron  tank  and  oaken  chest,  can  ever  swim  or  roll!  To  think 
that  any  force  of  wind  and  wave  could  ever  break  her!  To 


25f> 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


think  that  wherever  I see  a glowing  red-hot  iron  point 
thrust  out  of  her  side  from  within — as  I do  now,  there, 
and  there,  and  there ! — and  two  watching  men  on  a stage 
without,  with  bared  arms  and  sledge-hammers,  strike  at  it 
fiercely,  and  repeat  their  blows  until  it  is  black  and  flat,  I 
see  a rivet  being  driven  home,  of  which  there  are  many  in 
every  iron  plate,  and  thousands  upon  thousands  in  the  ship! 
To  think  that  the  difficulty  I experience  in  appreciating  the 
ship’s  size  when  I am  on  board,  arises  from  her  being  a 
series  of  iron  tanks  and  oaken  chests,  so  that  internally  she 
is  ever  finishing  and  ever  beginning,  and  half  of  her  might 
be  smashed,  and  yet  the  remaining  half  suffice  and  be 
sound.  Then,  to  go  over  the  side  again  and  down  among 
the  ooze  and  wet  to  the  bottom  of  the  dock,  in  the  depths 
of  the  subterranean  forest  of  dog-shores  and  stays  that  hold 
her  up,  and  to  see  the  immense  mass  bulging  out  against 
the  upper  light,  and  tapering  down  towards  me,  is,  with 
great  pains  and  much  clambering,  to  arrive  at  an  impossi- 
bility of  realising  that  this  is  a ship  at  all,  and  to  become 
possessed  by  the  fancy  that  it  is  an  enormous  immovable 
edifice  set  up  in  an  ancient  amphitheatre  (say,  that  at  Ve- 
rona), and  almost  filling  it!  Yet  what  would  even  these 
things  be,  without  the  tributary  workshops  and  the  me- 
chanical powers  for  piercing  the  iron  plates — four  inches 
and  a half  thick — for  rivets,  shaping  them  under  hydraulic 
pressure  to  the  finest  tapering  turns  of  the  ship’s  lines, 
and  paring  them  away,  with  knives  shaped  like  the  beaks 
of  strong  and  cruel  birds,  to  the  nicest  requirements  of  the 
design  ! These  machines  of  tremendous  force,  so  easily 
directed  by  one  attentive  face  and  presiding  hand,  seem  to 
me  to  have  in  them  something  of  the  retiring  character  of 
the  Yard.  Obedient  monster,  please  to  bite  this  mass  of 
iron  through  and  through,  at  equal  distances,  where  these 
regular  chalk-marks  are,  all  round.”  Monster  looks  at  its 
work,  and  lifting  its  ponderous  head,  replies,  don’t  par- 
ticularly want  to  do  it;  but  if  it  must  be  done ! ” The 

solid  metal  wriggles  out,  hot  from  the  monster’s  crunch- 
ing tooth,  and  it  is  done.  Dutiful  monster,  observe  this 
other  mass  of  iron.  It  is  required  to  be  pared  away,  ac- 
cording to  this  delicately  lessening  and  arbitrary  line,  which 
please  to  look  at.”  Monster  (who  has  been  in  a reverie) 
brings  down  its  blunt  head,  and,  much  in  the  manner  of 
Doctor  Johnson,  closely  looks  along  the  line — very  closely, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


257 


being  somewhat  near-sighted.  I donH  particularly  want 

to  do  it;  but  if  it  must  be  done ! ” Monster  takes 

another  near-sighted  look,  takes  aim,  and  the  tortured  piece 
writhes  off,  and  falls,  a hot  tight-twisted  snake,  among 
the  ashes.  The  making  of  the  rivets  is  merely  a pretty 
round  game,  played  by  a man  and  a boy,  who  put  red-hot 
barley  sugar  in  a Pope  Joan  board,  and  immediately  rivets 
fall  out  of  window;  but  the  tone  of  the  great  machines  is 
the  tone  of  the  great  Yard  and  the  great  country : ‘‘We  don’t 
particularly  want  to  do  it;  but  if  it  must  be  done ! ” 

How  such  a prodigious  mass  as  the  Achilles  can  ever  be 
held  by  such  comparatively  little  anchors  as  those  intended 
for  her  and  lying  near  her  here,  is  a mystery  of  seamanship 
which  I will  refer  to  the  wise  boy.  For  my  own  part,  I 
should  as  soon  have  thought  of  tethering  an  elephant  to  a 
tent-peg,  or  the  larger  hippopotamus  in  the  Zoological  Gar- 
dens to  my  shirt-pin.  Yonder  in  the  river,  alongside  a 
hulk,  lie  two  of  this  ship’s  hollow  iron  masts.  They  are 
large  enough  for  the  eye,  I find,  and  so  are  all  her  other 
appliances.  I wonder  why  only  her  anchors  look  small. 

1 have  no  present  time  to  think  about  it,  for  I am  going 
to  see  the  workshops  where  they  make  all  the  oars  used  in 
the  British  Navy.  A pretty  large  pile  of  building,  I opine, 
and  a pretty  long  job!  As  to  the  building,  I am  soon  dis- 
appointed, because  the  work  is  all  done  in  one  loft.  And 
as  to  a long  job — what  is  this?  Two  rather  large  mangles 
with  a swarm  of  butterflies  hovering  over  them?  What 
can  there  be  in  the  mangles  that  attracts  butterflies? 

Drawing  nearer,  I discern  that  these  are  not  mangles, 
but  intricate  machines,  set  with  knives  and  saws  and  planes, 
which  cut  smooth  and  straight  here,  and  slantwise  there, 
and  now  cut  such  a depth,  and  now  miss  cutting  altogether, 
according  to  the  predestined  requirements  of  the  pieces  of 
wood  that  are  pushed  on  below  them : each  of  which  pieces 
is  to  be  an  oar,  and  is  roughly  adapted  to  that  purpose  be- 
fore it  takes  its  final  leave  of  far-off  forests,  and  sails  for 
England.  Likewise  I discern  that  the  butterflies  are  not 
true  butterflies,  but  wooden  shavings,  which,  being  spirted 
up  from  the  wood  by  the  violence  of  the  machinery,  and 
kept  in  rapid  and  not  equal  movement  by  the  impulse  of 
its  rotation  on  the  air,  flutter  and  play,  and  rise  and  fall, 
and  conduct  themselves  as  like  butterflies  as  heart  could 
wish.  Suddenly  the  noise  and  motion  cease,  and  the  but- 
17 


258 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


terflies  drop  dead.  An  oar  has  been  made  since  I came  in 
wanting  the  shaped  handle.  As  quickly  as  I can  follow  it 
with  my  eye  and  thought,  the  same  oar  is  carried  to  a turn- 
ing lathe.  A whirl  and  a Nick!  Handle  made.  Oar 
finished. 


The  exquisite  beauty  and  efficiency  of  this  machinery 
need  no  illustration,  but  happen  to  have  a pointed  illus- 
tration to-day.  A pair  of  oars  of  unusual  size  chance  to 
tie  wanted  for  a special  purpose,  and  they  have  to  be 
made  by  hand.  Side  by  side  with  the  subtle  and  facile 
machine,  and  side  by  side  with  the  fast-growing  pile  of 
oars  on  the  floor,  a man  shapes  out  these  special  oars  with 
an  axe.  Attended  by  no  butterflies,  and  chipping  and 
dinting,  by  comparison  as  leisurely  as  if  he  were  a labour- 
ing Pagan  getting  them  ready  against  his  decease  at  three- 
score and  ten,  to  take  with  him  as  a present  to  Charon  for 
his  boat,  the  man  (aged  about  thirty)  plies  his  task.  The 
machine  would  make  a regulation  oar  while  the  man  wipes 
his  forehead.  The  man  might  be  buried  in  a mound  made 
01  the  strips  of  thin  broad  wooden  ribbon  torn  from  the 
wood  whirled  into  oars  as  the  minutes  fall  from  the  clock 
before  he  had  done  a forenoon’s  work  with  his  axe.  ^ 

Passing  from  this  wonderful  sight  to  the  Ships  again— 
for  my  heart,  as  to  the  Yard,  is  where  the  ships  are — I no- 
tice certain  unfinished  wooden  walls  left  seasoning  on  the 
stocks,  pending  the  solution  of  the  merits  of  the  wood  and 
iron  question,  and  having  an  air  of  biding  their  time  with 
surly  confidence.  The  names  of  these  worthies  are  set  up 
beside  them,  together  with  their  capacity  in  guns — a cus- 
tom highly  conducive  to  ease  and  satisfaction  in  social  in- 
tercourse, if  it  could  be  adapted  to  mankind.  By  a plank 
more  gracefully  pendulous^  than  substantial,  I make  bold 
to  go  aboard  a transport  ship  (iron  screw)  just  sent  in  from 
the  contractor’s  yard  to  be  inspected  and  passed.  She  is 
a very  gratifying  experience,  in  the  simplicity  and  hu- 
rnanity  of  her  arrangements  for  troops,  in  her  provision  for 
light  and  air  and  cleanliness,  and  in  her  care  for  women 
and  children.  It  occurs  to  me,  as  I explore  her,  that  I 
would  require  a handsome  sum  of  money  to  go  aboard  her 
at  midnight  by  the  Dockyard  bell,  and  stay  aboard  alone 
till  morning;  for  surely  she  must  be  haunted  by  a crowd  of 
ghosts  of  obstinate  old  martinets,  mournfully  flapping  their 
cherubic  epaulettes  over  the  changed  times.  Though  still 


THE  ITNC03IMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


259 


we  may  learn  from  the  astounding  ways  and  means  in  our 
Yards  now,  more  highly  than  ever  to  respect  the  forefathers 
who  got  to  sea,  and  fought  the  sea,  and  held  the  sea,  with- 
out them.  This  remembrance  putting  me  in  the  best  of 
tempers  with  an  old  hulk,  very  green  as  to  her  copper,  and 
. generally  dim  and  patched,  I pull  off  my  hat  to  her. 
Which  salutation  a callow  and  downy-faced  young  officer 
of  Engineers,  going  by  at  the  moment,  perceiving,  appro- 
priates— and  to  which  he  is  most  heartily  welcome,  I am 
sure. 

Having  been  torn  to  pieces  (in  imagination)  by  the  steam 
circular  saws,  perpendicular  saws,  horizontal  saws,  and 
saws  of  eccentric  action,  I come  to  the  sauntering  part  of 
my  expedition,  and  consequently  to  the  core  of  my  Uncom- 
mercial pursuits. 

Everywhere,  as  I saunter  up  and  down  the  Yard,  I meet 
with  tokens  of  its  quiet  and  retiring  character.  There  is  a 
, gravity  upon  its  red  brick  offices  and  houses,  a staid  pre- 
, tence  of  having  nothing  worth  mentioning  to  do,  an  avoid- 
ance of  display,  which  I never  saw  out  of  England.  The 
white  stones  of  the  pavement  present  no  other  trace  of 
Achilles  and  his  twelve  hundred  banging  men  (not  one  of 
whom  strikes  an  attitude)  than  a few  occasional  echoes. 
But  for  a whisper  in  the  air  suggestive  of  sawdust  and 
shavings,  the  oar-making  and  the  saws  of  many  movements 
might  be  miles  away.  Down  below  here,  is  the  great  reser- 
voir of  water  where  timber  is  steeped  in  various  tempera- 
tures, as  a part  of  its  seasoning  process.  Above  it,  on  a 
tramroad  supported  by  pillars,  is  a Chinese  Enchanter’s 
Car,  which  fishes  the  logs  up,  when  sufficiently  steeped, 
and  rolls  smoothly  away  with  them  to  stack  them.  When 
I was  a child  (the  Yard  being  then  familiar  to  me)  I used 
to  think  that  I should  like  to  play  at  Chinese  Enchanter, 
and  to  have  that  apparatus  placed  at  my  disposal  for  the 
purpose  by  a beneficent  country.  I still  think  that  I should 
rather  like  to  try  the  effect  of  writing  a book  in  it.  Its  re- 
tirement is  complete,  and  to  go  gliding  to  and  fro  among 
the  stacks  of  timber  would  be  a convenient  kind  of  travel- 
ling in  foreign  countries — among  the  forests  of  North 
America,  the  sodden  Honduras  swamps,  the  dark  pine* 
woods,  the  Norwegian  frosts,  and  the  tropical  heats,  rainy 
seasons,  and  thunder-storms.  The  costly  store  of  timber 
Is  stacked  and  stowed  away  in  sequestered  places,  with  the 


260 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

pervading  avoidance  of  flourish  or  effect.  It  makes  as  liL 
tie  of  itself  as  possible,  and  calls  -to  no  one  Come  and  look 
at  me!’^  And  yet  it  is  picked  out  from  the  trees  of  the 
world;  picked  out  for  length,  picked  out  for  breadth, 
picked  out  for  straightness,  picked  out  for  crookedness, 
chosen  with  an  eye  to  every  need  of  ship  and  boat. 
Strangely  twisted  pieces  lie  about,  precious  in  the  sight  of 
shipwrights.  Sauntering  through  these  groves,  I come 
upon  an  open  glade  where  workmen  are  examining  some 
timber  recently  delivered.  Quite  a pastoral  scene,  with  a 
background  of  river  and  windmill ! and  no  more  like  War 
than  the  American  States  are  at  present  like  an  Union. 

Sauntering  among  the  ropemaking,  I am  spun  into  a 
state  of  blissful  indolence,  wherein  my  rope  of  life  seems 
to  be  so  untwisted  by  the  process  as  that  I can  see  back  to 
very  early  days  indeed,  when  my  bad  dreams— they  were 
frightful,  though  my  more  mature  understanding  has  never 
made  out  why — were  of  an  interminable  sort  of  ropemak- 
ing,  with  long  minute  filaments  for  strands,  which,  when 
they  were  spun  home  together  close  to  my  eyes,  occasioned 
screaming.  Next,  I walk  among  the  quiet  lofts  of  stores 
—of  sails,  spars,  rigging,  ships’  boats— determined  to  be- 
lieve that  somebody  in  authority  wears  a girdle  and  bends 
beneath  the  weight  of  a massive  bunch  of  keys,  and  that, 
when  such  a thing  is  wanted,  he  comes  telling  his  keys 
like  Blue  Beard,  and  opens  such  a door.  Impassive  as  the 
long  lofts  look,  let  the  electric  battery  send  down  the  word, 
and  the  shutters  and  doors  shall  fly  open,  and  such  a fleet 
of  armed  ships,  under  steam  and  under  sail,  shall  burst 
forth  as  will  charge  the  old  Medway — where  the  merry 
Stuart  let  the  Dutch  come,  while  his  not  so  merry  sailors 
starved  in  the  streets — with  something  worth  looking  at  to 
carry  to  the  sea.  Thus  I idle  round  to  the  Medway  again, 
where  it  is  now  flood  tide;  and  I find  the  river  evincing  a 
strong  solicitude  to  force  a way  into  the  dry  dock  where 
Achilles  is  waited  on  by  the  twelve  hundred  bangers,  with 
intent  to  bear  the  whole  away  before  they  are  ready. 

To  the  last,  the  Yard  puts  a quiet  face  upon  it;  for  I 
make  my  way  to  the  gates  through  a little  quiet  grove  of 
trees,  shading  the  quaintest  of  Dutch  landing-places,  where 
the  leaf-speckled  shadow  of  a shipwright  just  passing  away 
at  the  further  end  might  be  the  shadow  of  Russian  Peter 
himself.  So,  the  doors  of  the  great  patent  safe  at  lasf 


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261 


close  upon  me,  and  I take  boat  again:  somehow,  thinking 
as  the  oars  dip,  of  braggart  Pistol  and  his  brood,  and  of 
the  quiet  monsters  of  the  Yard,  with  their  ‘^We  don’t 

particularly  want  to  do  it;  but  if  it  must  be  done ■!” 

Scrunch. 

XXVIL 

IN  THE  FRENCH-FLEMISH  COUNTRY. 

‘‘It  is  neither  a bold  nor  a diversified  country,”  said  I 
to  myself,  “this  country  which  is  three-quarters  Flemish, 
and  a quarter  French;  yet  it  has  its  attractions  too. 
Though  great  lines  of  railway  traverse  it,  the  trains  leave 
it  behind,  and  go  puffing  off  to  Paris  and  the  South,  to  Bel- 
gium and  Germany,  to  the  Northern  Sea-Coast  of  France, 
and  to  England,  and  merely  smoke  it  a little  in  passing. 
Then  I don’t  know  it,  and  that  is  a good  reason  for  being 
here;  and  I can’t  pronounce  half  the  long  queer  names  I 
see  inscribed  over  the  shops,  and  that  is  another  good 
reason  for  being  here,  since  I surely  ought  to  learn  how.” 
In  short,  I was  “here,”  and  I wanted  an  excuse  for  not 
going  away  from  here,  and  I made  it  to  my  satisfaction, 
and  stayed  here. 

What  part  in  my  decision  was  borne  by  Monsieur  P. 
Salcy,  is  of  no  moment,  though  I own  to  encountering  that 
gentleman’s  name  on  a red  bill  on  the  wall,  before  I made 
up  my  mind.  Monsieur  P.  Salcy,  “ par  permission  de  M. 
le  Maire,”  had  established  his  theatre  in  the  whitewashed 
Hotel  de  Ville,  on  the  steps  of  which  illustrious  edifice  I 
stood.  And  Monsieur  P.  Salcy,  privileged  director  of  such 
theatre,  situate  in  “ the  first  theatrical  arrondissement  of 
the  department  of  the  North,”  invited  French-Flemish 
mankind  to  come  and  partake  of  the  intellectual  banquet 
provided  by  his  family  of  dramatic  artists,  fifteen  subjects 
in  number.  “La  Famille  P.  Salcy,  composee  d’artistes 
dramatiques,  au  nombre  de  15  sujets.” 

Neither  a bold  nor  a diversified  country,  I say  again,  and 
withal  an  untidy  country,  but  pleasant  enough  to  ride  in; 
when  the  paved  roads  over  the  flats  and  through  the  hol- 
lows, are  not  too  deep  in  black  mud.  A country  so  sparely 
inhabited,  that  I wonder  where  the  peasants  who  till  and 


262 


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sow  and  reap  the  ground,  can  possibly  dwell,  and  also  by 
what  invisible  balloons  they  are  conveyed  from  their  dis- 
tant homes  into  the  fields  at  sunrise  and  back  again  at  sun- 
set. The  occasional  few  poor  cottages  and  farms  in  this 
region,  surely  cannot  afford  shelter  to  the  numbers  neces- 
sary to  the  cultivation,  albeit  the  work  is  done  so  very  de- 
liberately, that  on  one  long  harvest  day  I have  seen,  in 
twelve  miles,  about  twice  as  many  men  and  women  (all 
told)  reaping  and  binding.  Yet  have  I seen  more  cattle, 
more  sheep,  more  pigs,  and  all  in  better  case,  than  where 
there  is  purer  French  spoken,  and  also  better  ricks — round 
swelling  peg-top  ricks,  well  thatched:  not  a shapeless 
brown  heap,  like  the  toast  of  a Giant^s  toast-and- water, 
pinned  to  the  earth  with  one  of  the  skewers  out  of  his 
kitchen.  A good  custom  they  have  about  here,  likewise, 
of  prolonging  the  sloping  tiled  roof  of  farm  or  cottage,  so 
that  it  overhangs  three  or  four  feet,  carrying  off  the  wet, 
and  making  a good  drying  place  wherein  to  hang  up  herbs, 
or  implements,  or  what  not.  A better  custom  than  the 
popular  one  of  keeping  the  refuse-heap^  and  puddle  close 
before  the  house  door : which,  although  I paint  my  dwelling 
never  so  brightly  blue  (and  it  cannot  be  too  blue  for  me, 
hereabouts),  will  bring  fever  inside  my  door.  W^onderful 
poultry  of  the  French-Flemish  country,  why  take  the  trouble 
to  he  poultry?  Why  not  stop  short  at  eggs  in  the  rising 
generation,  and  die  out  and  have  done  with  it?  Parents 
of  chickens  have  I seen  this  day,  followed  by  their  wretched 
young  families,  scratching  nothing  out  of  the  mud  with  an 
air— tottering  about  on  legs  so  scraggy  and  weak,  that  the 
valiant  word  drumsticks  becomes  a mockery  when  applied 
to  them,  and  the  crow  of  the  lord  and  master  has  been  a 
mere  dejected  case  of  croup.  Carts  have  I seen,  and  other 
agricultural  instruments,  unwieldy,  dislocated,  monstrous. 
Poplar-trees  by  the  thousand  fringe  the  fields  and  fringe 
the  end  of  the  fiat  landscape,  so  that  I feel,  looking  straight 
on  before  me,  as  if,  when  I pass  the  extremest  fringe  on 
the  low  horizon,  I shall  stumble  over  into  space.  Little 
white-washed  black  holes  of  chapels,  with  barred  doors 
and  Flemish  inscriptions,  abound  at  roadside  corners,  and 
often  they  are  garnished  with  a sheaf  of  wooden  crosses, 
like  children’s  swords;  or,  in  their  default,  some  hollow 
old  tree  with  a saint  roosting  in  it,  is  similarly  decorated, 
or  a pole  with  a very  diminutive  saint  enshrined  aloft  in  a 


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263 


sort  of  sacred  pigeon-house.  Not  that  we  are  deficient  in 
such  decoration  in  the  town  here,  for,  over  at  the  church 
yonder,  outside  the  building,  is  a scenic  representation  of 
the  Crucifixion,  built  up  with  old  bricks  and  stones,  and 
made  out  with  painted  canvas  and  wooden  figures:  the 
whole  surmounting  the  dusty  skull  of  some  holy  personage 
(perhaps),  shut  up  behind  a little  ashy  iron  grate,  as  if  it 
were  originally  put  there  to  be  cooked,  and  the  fire  had 
long  gone  out.  A windmilly  country  this,  though  the 
windmills  are  so  damp  and  rickety,  that  they  nearly  knock 
themselves  off  their  legs  at  every  turn  of  their  sails,  and 
creak  in  loud  complaint.  A weaving  country,  too,  for  in 
the  wayside  cottages  the  loom  goes  wearily — rattle  and 
click,  rattle  and  click — and,  looking  in,  I see  the  poor 
weaving  peasant,  man  or  woman,  bending  at  the  work, 
while  the  child,  working  too,  turns  a little  handwheel  put 
upon  the  ground  to  suit  its  height.  An  unconscionable 
monster,  the  loom  in  a small  dwelling,  asserting  himself 
ungenerously  as  the  bread-winner,  straddling  over  the  chil- 
‘ dren’s  straw  beds,  cramping  the  family  in  space  and  air, 
and  making  himself  generally  objectionable  and  tyrannical. 
He  is  tributary,  too,  to  ugly  mills  and  factories  and 
bleaching-grounds,  rising  out  of  the  sluiced  fields  in  an 
abrupt  bare  way,  disdaining,  like  himself,  to  be  ornamental 
or  accommodating.  Surrounded  by  these  things,  here  I stood 
on  the  steps  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  persuaded  to  remain  by 
the  P.  Salcy  Family,  fifteen  dramatic  subjects  strong. 

There  was  a Fair  besides.  The  double  persuasion  being 
irresistible,  and  my  sponge  being  left  behind  at  the  last 
Hotel,  I made  the  tour  of  the  little  town  to  buy  another. 
In  the  small  sunny  shops — mercers,  opticians,  and  druggist- 
grocers,  with  here  and  there  an  emporium  of  religious 
images — the  gravest  of  old  spectacled  Flemish  husbands 
and  wives  sat  contemplating  one  another  across  bare  count- 
ers, while  the  wasps,  who  seemed  to  have  taken  military 
possession  of  the  town,  and  to  have  placed  it  under  wasp- 
martial  law,  executed  warlike  manoeuvres  in  the  windows. 
Other  shops  the  wasps  had  entirely  to  themselves,  and  no- 
body cared  and  nobody  came  when  I beat  with  a five-franc 
piece  upon  the  board  of  custom.  What  I sought  was  no 
more  to  be  found  than  if  I had  sought  a nugget  of  Califor- 
nian gold  : so  I went,  spongeless,  to  pass  the  evening  with 
the  Family  P.  Salcy. 


264 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

The  members  of  the  Family  P.  Salcy  were  so  fat  and  so 
like  one  another— fathers,  mothers,  sisters,  brothers,  uncles, 
and  aunts  that  I think  the  local  audience  were  much  con- 
fused  about  the  plot  of  the  piece  under  representation, 
and  to  the  last  expected  that  everybody  must  turn  out  to 
be  the  long-lost  relative  of  everybody  else.  The  Theatre 
was  established  on  the  top  story  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and 
was  approached  by  a long  bare  staircase,  whereon,  in  an 
airy  situation,  one  of  the  P.  Salcy  Family — a stout  gentle- 
man imperfectly  repressed  by  a belt— took  the  money 
This  occasioned  the  greatest  excitement  of  the  evening- 
for,  no  sooner  did  the  curtain  rise  on  the  introductory 
Vaudeville,  and  reveal  in  the  person  of  the  young  lover 
(singing  a very  short  song  with  his  eyebrows)  apparently 
the  very  same  identical  stout  gentleman  imperfectly  re- 
pressed by  a belt,  than  everybody  rushed  out  to  the  paying- 
place,  to  ascertain  whether  he  could  possibly  have  put  on 
that  dress-coat,  that  clear  complexion,  and  those  arched 
black  vocal  eyebrows,  in  so  short  a space  of  time.  It  then 
became  manifest  that  this  was  another  stout  gentleman  im- 
perfectly repressed  by  a belt:  to  whom,  before  the  specta- 
tors had  recovered  their  presence  of  mind,  entered  a third 
stout  gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a belt,  exactly 
like  him.  These  two  “subjects,”  making  with  the  money- 
taker  three  of  the  announced  fifteen,  fell  into  conversation 
touching  a charming  young  widow : who,  presently  appear- 
proved  to  be  a stout  lady  altogether  irrepressible  by  any 
means— quite  a parallel  case  to  the  American  Negro— fourth 
of  the  fifteen  subjects,  and  sister  of  the  fifth  who  presided 
over  the  check  department.  In  good  time  the  whole  of  the 
fifteen  subjects  were  dramatically  presented,  and  we  had 
the  inevitable  Ma  Mere,  Ma  M^re!  and  also  the  inevitable 
male'diction  d’un  pere,  and  likewise  the  inevitable  Marquis, 
and  also  the  inevitable  provincial  young  man,  weak-minded 
but  faithful,  who  followed  Julie  to  Paris,  and  cried  and 
laughed  and  choked  all  at  once.  The  story  was  wrought  out 
with  the  help  of  a virtuous  spinning-wheel  in  the  beginning, 
a vicious  set  of  diamonds  in  the  middle,  and  a rheumatic 
blessing  (which  arrived  by  post)  from  Ma  M^re  towards 
the  end;  the  whole  resulting  in  a small  sword  in  the  body 
of  one  of  the  stout  gentlemen  imperfectly  repressed  by  a 
belt,  fifty  thousand  francs  per  annum  and  a decoration  to 
the  other  stout  gentleman  imperfectly  repressed  by  a belt. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


265 


and  an  assurance  from  everybody  to  the  provincial  young 
man  that  if  he  were  not  supremely  happy — which  he  seemed 
to  have  no  reason  whatever  for  being — he  ought  to  be. 
This  afforded  him  a final  opportunity  of  crying  and  laugh- 
ing and  choking  all  at  once,  and  sent  the  audience  home 
sentimentally  delighted.  Audience  more  attentive  or  bet- 
ter behaved  there  could  not  possibly  be,  though  the  places 
of  second  rank  in  the  Theatre  of  the  Family  P.  Salcy  were 
sixpence  each  in  English  money,  and  the  places  of  first  rank 
a shilling.  How  the  fifteen  subjects  ever  got  so  fat  upon 
it,  the  kind  Heavens  know. 

What  gorgeous  china  figures  of  knights  and  ladies,  gilded 
till  they  gleamed  again,  I might  have  bought  at  the  Fair  for 
the  garniture  of  my  home,  if  I had  been  a French-  Flemish 
peasant,  and  had  had  the  money!  What  shining  coffee- 
cups  and  saucers  I might  have  won  at  the  turntables,  if  I 
had  had  the  luck ! Ravishing  perfumery  also,  and  sweet- 
meats, I might  have  speculated  in,  or  I might  have  fired 
for  prizes  at  a multitude  of  little  dolls  in  niches,  and  might 
have  hit  the  doll  of  dolls,  and  won  francs  and  fame.  Or, 
being  a French-Flemish  youth,  I might  have  been  drawn 
in  a hand-cart  by  my  compeers,  to  tilt  for  municipal  re- 
wards at  the  water-quintain;  which,  unless  I sent  my  lance 
clean  through  the  ring,  emptied  a full  bucket  over  me;  to 
fend  off  which,  the  competitors  wore  grotesque  old  scare- 
crow hats.  Or,  being  French- PTemish  man  or  woman,  boy 
or  girl,  I might  have  circled  all  night  on  my  hobby-horse 
in  a stately  cavalcade  of  hobby-horses  four  abreast,  inter- 
spersed with  triumphal  cars,  going  round  and  round  and 
round  and  round,  we  the  goodly  company  singing  a cease- 
less chorus  to  the  music  of  the  barrel-organ,  drum,  and 
cymbals.  On  the  whole,  not  more  monotonous  than  the 
Ring  in  Hyde  Park,  London,  and  much  merrier;  for  when 
do  the  circling  company  sing  chorus,  tliere^  to  the  barrel- 
organ,  when  do  the  ladies  embrace  their  horses  round  the 
neck  with  both  arms,  when  do  the  gentlemen  fan  the  ladies 
with  the  tails  of  their  gallant  steeds?  On  all  these  revolv- 
ing delights,  and  on  their  own  especial  lamps  and  Chinese 
lanterns  revolving  with  them,  the  thoughtful  weaver-face 
brightens,  and  the  Hotel  de  Yille  sheds  an  illuminated  line 
of  gaslight:  while  above  it,  the  Eagle  of  France,  gas- 
outlined  and  apparently  afflicted  with  the  prevailing  infirmi- 
ties that  have  lighted  on  the  poultry,  is  in  a very  undecided 


266 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


state  of  policy,  and  as  a bird  moulting.  Flags  flutter  all 
around.  Such  is  the  prevailing  gaiety  that  the  keeper  of 
the  prison  sits  on  the  stone  steps  outside  the  prison-door,  to 
have  a look  at  the  world  that  is  not  locked  up;  while  that 
agreeable  retreat,  the  wine-shop  opposite  to  the  prison  in 
the  prison-alley  (its  sign  La  Tranquillite,  because  of  its 
charming  situation),  resounds  with  the  voices  of  the  shep- 
herds and  shepherdesses  who  resort  there  this  festive  night. 
And  it  reminds  me  that  only  this  afternoon,  I saw  a shep- 
herd in  trouble,  tending  this  way,  over  the  jagged  stones 
of  a neighbouring  street.  A magnificent  sight  it  was,  to 
behold  him  in  his  blouse,  a feeble  little  jog-trot  rustic, 
swept  along  by  the  wind  of  two  immense  gendarmes,  in 
cocked-hats  for  which  the  street  was  hardly  wide  enough, 
each  carrying  a bundle  of  stolen  property  that  would  not 
have  held  his  shoulder-knot,  and  clanking  a sabre  that 
dwarfed  the  prisoner. 

‘'Messieurs  et  Mesdames,  I present  to  you  at  this  Fair, 
as  a mark  of  my  confidence  in  the  people  of  this  so- 
renowned  town,  and  as  an  act  of  homage  to  their  good 
sense  and  fine  taste,  the  Ventriloquist,  the  Ventriloquist! 
Further,  Messieurs  et  Mesdames,  I present  to  you  the  Face- 
Maker,  the  Physiognomist,  the  great  Changer  of  Counte- 
nances, who  transforms  the  features  that  Heaven  has  be- 
stowed upon  him  into  an  endless  succession  of  surprising 
and  extraordinary  visages,  comprehending.  Messieurs  et 
Mesdames,  all  the  contortions,  energetic  and  expressive,  of 
which  the  human  face  is  capable,  and  all  the  passions  of 
the  human  heart,  as  Love,  Jealousy,  Revenge,  Hatred, 
Avarice,  Despair ! Hi  hi.  Ho  ho,  Lu  In,  Come  in ! ''  To 
this  effect,  with  an  occasional  smite  upon  a sonorous  kind 
of  tambourine — bestowed  with  a will,  as  if  it  represented 
the  people  who  won’t  come  in— holds  forth  a man  of  lofty 
and  severe  demeanour;  a man  in  stately  uniform,  gloomy 
with  the  knowledge  he  possesses  of  the  inner  secrets  of  the 
booth.  “Come  in,  come  in!  Your  opportunity  presents 
itself  to-night;  to-morrow  it  will  be  gone  for  ever.  To- 
morrow morning  by  the  Express  Train  the  railroad  will 
reclaim  the  Ventriloquist  and  the  Face-Maker!  Algeria 
will  reclaim  the  Ventriloquist  and  the  Face-Maker!  Yes! 
For  the  honour  of  their  country  they  have  accepted  propo- 
sitions of  a magnitude  incredible,  to  appear  in  Algeria. 
See  them  for  the  last  time  before  their  departure!  We  go 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  267 

to  commence  on  the  instant..  Hi  hi!  Ho  ho!  Lu  In! 
Come  in!  Take  the  money  that  now  ascends,  Madame; 
but  after  that,  no  more,  for  we  commence!  Come  in! 

Nevertheless,  the  eyes  both  of  the  gloomy  Speaker  and 
of  Madame  receiving  sous  in  a muslin  bower,  survey  the 
crowd  pretty  sharply  after  the  ascending  money  has  as- 
cended, to  detect  any  lingering  sous  at  the  turning-point. 
/‘Come  in,  come  in!  Is  there  any  more  money,  Madame, 
on  the  point  of  ascending?  If  so,  we  wait  for  it.  If  not, 
we  commence!^’  The  orator  looks  back  over  his  shoulder 
to  say  it,  lashing  the  spectators  with  the  conviction  that 
he  beholds  through  the  folds  of  the  drapery  into  which  he 
is  about  to  plunge,  the  Ventriloquist  and  the  Face-Maker. 
Several  sous  burst  out  of  pockets,  and  ascend.  Come  up, 
then.  Messieurs ! ''  exclaims  Madame  in  a shrill  voice,  and 
beckoning  with  a bejewelled  finger.  Come  up ! This 
presses.  Monsieur  has  commanded  that  they  commence ! 
Monsieur  dives  into  his  Interior,  and  the  last  half-dozen  of 
us  follow.  His  Interior  is  comparatively  severe;  his  Ex- 
'terior  also.  A true  Temple  of  Art  needs  nothing  but  seats, 
drapery,  a small  table  with  two  moderator  lamps  hanging 
over  it,  and  an  ornamental  looking-glass  let  into  the  wall. 
Monsieur  in  uniform  gets  behind  the  table  and  surveys  us 
with  disdain,  his  forehead  becoming  diabolically  intellect- 
ual under  the  moderators.  Messieurs  et  Mesdames,  I 
present  to  you  the  Ventriloquist.  He  will  commence  with 
the  celebrated  Experience  of  the  bee  in  the  window.  The 
bee,  apparently  the  veritable  bee  of  Nature,  will  hover  in 
the  window,  pid  about  the  room.  He  will  be  with  diffi- 
culty  caught  in  the  hand  of  Monsieur  the  Ventriloquist — 
he  will  escape — he  will  again  hover — at  length  he  will  be 
recaptured  by  Monsieur  the  Ventriloquist,  and  will  be  with 
difficulty  put  into  a bottle.  Achieve  then.  Monsieur!'' 
Here  the  proprietor  is  replaced  behind  the  table  by  the 
Ventriloquist,  who  is  thin  and  sallow,  and  of  a weakly 
aspect.  ^ While  the  bee  is  in  progress.  Monsieur  the  Pro- 
prietor sits  apart  on  a stool,  immersed  in  dark  and  remote 
thought.  The  moment  the  bee  is  bottled,  he  stalks  forward, 
eyes  us  gloomily  as  we  applaud,  and  then  announces, 
sternly  waving  his  hand : ‘‘  The  magnificent  Experience , 

of  the  child  with  the  whooping-cough ! " The  child  dis- 
posed of,  he  starts  up  as  before.  The  superb  and  extraor- 
dinary Experience  of  the  dialogue  between  Monsieur  Ta 


268 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


tambour  in  his  dining-room,  and  his  domestic,  Jerome,  in 
the  cellar;  concluding  with  the  songsters  of  the  grove,  and 
the  Concert  of  domestic  Farm-yard  animals.”  All  this 
done,  and  well  done.  Monsieur  the  Ventriloquist  with- 
draws, and  Monsieur  the  Face-Maker  bursts  in,  as  if  his 
retiring-room  were  a mile  long  instead  of  a yard.  A cor- 
pulent little  man  in  a large  white  waistcoat,  with  a comic 
countenance,  and  with  a wig  in  his  hand.  Irreverent  dis- 
position to  laugh,  instantly  checked  by  the  tremendous 
gravity  of  the  Face-Maker,  who  intimates  in  his  bow  that 
if  we  expect  that  sort  of  thing  we  are  mistaken.  A very 
little  shaving-glass  with  a leg  behind  it  is  handed  in,  and 
placed  on  the  table  before  the  Face-Maker.  “Messieurs 
et  Mesdames,  with  no  other  assistance  than  this  mirror  and 
this  wig,  I shall  have  the  honour  of  showing  you  a thou- 
sand characters.”  As  a preparation,  the  Face-Maker  with 
both  hands  gouges  himself,  and  turns  his  mouth  inside  out. 
He  then  becomes  frightfully  grave  again,  and  says  to  the 
Proprietor,  “ I am  ready ! ” Proprietor  stalks  forth  from 
baleful  reverie,  and  announces  “The  Young  Conscript!” 
Face-Maker  claps  his  wig  on,  hind  side  before,  looks  in  the 
glass,  and  appears  above  it  as  a conscript  so  very  imbecile, 
and  squinting  so  extremely  hard,  that  I should  think  the 
State  would  never  get  any  good  of  him.  Thunders  of  ap- 
plause. Face-Maker  dips  behind  the  looking-glass,  brings 
his  own  hair  forward,  is  himself  again,  is  awfully  grave. 
“A  distinguished  inhabitant  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.” 
Face-Maker  dips,  rises,  is  supposed  to  be  aged,  blear-eyed, 
toothless,  slightly  palsied,  supernaturally  polite,  evidently 
of  noble  birth.  “The  oldest  member  of  the  Corps  of  In- 
valides  on  the  f^te-day  of  his  master.”  Face-Maker  dips, 
rises,  wears  the  wig  on  one  side,  has  become  the  feeblest 
military  bore  in  existence,  and  (it  is  clear)  would  lie  fright- 
fully about  his  past  achievements,  if  he  were  not  confined 
to  pantomime.  “The  Miser!”  Face-Maker  dips,  rises, 
clutches  a bag,  and  every  hair  of  the  wig  is  on  end  to  ex- 
press that  he  lives  in  continual  dread  of  thieves.  “ The 
Genius  of  France ! ” Face-Maker  dips,  rises,  wig  pushed 
back  and  smoothed  flat,  little  cocked-hat  (artfully  con- 
cealed till  now)  put  a-top  of  it,  Face-Maker’s  white  waist- 
coat much  advanced,  Face-Maker’s  left  hand  in  bosom  of 
white  waistcoat,  Face-Maker’s  right  hand  behind  his  back. 
Thunders.  This  is  the  first  of  three  positions  of  the  Genius 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


269 


of  France.  In  the  second  position,  the  Face-Maker  takes 
snuff;  in  the  third,  rolls  up  his  right  hand,  and  surveys 
illimitable  armies  through  that  pocket-glass.  The  Face- 
Maker  then,  by  putting  out  his  tongue,  and  wearing  the 
wig  nohow  in  particular,  becomes  the  Village  Idiot.  The 
most  remarkable  feature  in  the  whole  of  his  ingenious  per- 
formance, is,  that  whatever  he  does  to  disguise  himself, 
has  the  effect  of  rendering  him  rather  more  like  himself 
than  he  was  at  first. 

There  were  peep-shows  in  this  Fair,  and  I had  the  pleas- 
ure of  recognising  several  fields  of  glory  with  which  I be- 
;came  well  acquainted  a year  or  two  ago  as  Crimean  battles, 
now  doing  duty  as  Mexican  victories.  The  change  was 
neatly  effected  by  some  extra  smoking  of  the  Russians,  and 
by  permitting  the  camp  followers  free  range  in  the  fore- 
ground to  despoil  the  enemy  of  their  uniforms.  As  no 
British  troops  had  ever  happened  to  be  within  sight  when 
the  artist  took  his  original  sketches,  it  followed  fortunately 
jthat  none  were  in  the  way  now. 

The  Fair  wound  up  with  a ball.  Respecting  the  par- 
ticular night  of  the  week  on  which  the  ball  took  place,  I 
decline  to  commit  myself;  merely  mentioning  that  it  was 
held  in  a stable-yard  so  very  close  to  the  railway,  that  it  is 
a mercy  the  locomotive  did  not  set  fire  to  it.  (In  Scotland, 
I suppose  it  would  have  done  so.)  There,  in  a tent  prettily 
decorated  with  looking-glasses  and  a myriad  of  toy  flags, 
the  people  danced  all  night.  It  was  not  an  expensive  rec- 
reation, the  price  of  a double  ticket  for  a cavalier  and  lady 
being  one  and  threepence  in  English  money,  and  even  of 
that  small  sum  fivepence  was  reclaimable  for  consomma- 
ition;  which  word  I venture  to  translate  into  refreshments 
of  no  greater  strength,  at  the  strongest,  than  ordinary  wine 
made  hot,  with  sugar  and  lemon  in  it.  It  was  a ball  of 
great  good  humour  and  of  great  enjoyment,  though  very 
many  of  the  dancers  must  have  been  as  poor  as  the  fifteen 
subjects  of  the  P.  Salcy  Family. 

In  short,  not  having  taken  my  own  pet  national  pint  pot 
with  me  to  this  Fair,  I was  very  well  satisfied  with  the 
measure  of  simple  enjoyment  that  it  poured  into  the  dull 
French-Flemish  country  life.  How  dull  that  is,  I had  an' 
opportunity  of  considering  when  the  Fair  was  over — when 
the  tri-coloured  flags  were  withdrawn  from  the  windows  of 
the  houses  on  the  Place  where  the  Fair  was  held — when 


270 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


the  windows  were  close  shut,  apparently  until  next  Fair- 
time— when  the  Hotel  de  Ville  had  cut  off  its  gas  and  put 
away  its  eagle — when  the  two  paviours,  whom  I take  to 
form  the  entire  paving  population  of  the  town,  were  ram- 
ming down  the  stones  which  had  been  pulled  up  for  the 
erection  of  decorative  poles — when  the  jailer  had  slammed 
his  gate,  and  sulkily  locked  himself  in  with  his  charges. 
But  then,  as  I paced  the  ring  which  marked  the  track  of 
the  departed  hobby-horses  on  the  market-place,  pondering  in 
my  mind  how  long  some  hobby-horses  do  leave  their  tracks 
in  public  ways,  and  how  difficult  they  are  to  erase,  my 
eyes  were  greeted  with  a goodly  sight.  I beheld  four  male 
personages  thoughtfully  pacing  the  Place  together,  in  the 
sunlight,  evidently  not  belonging  to  the  town,  and  having 
upon  them  a certain  loose  cosmopolitan  air  of  not  belonging 
to  any  town.  One  was  clad  in  a suit  of  white  canvas, 
another  in  a cap  and  blouse,  the  third  in  an  old  military 
frock,  the  fourth  in  a shapeless  dress  that  looked  as  if  it 
had  been  made  out  of  old  umbrellas.  All  wore  dust- 
coloured  shoes.  My  heart  beat  high;  for,  in  those  four 
male  personages,  although  complexionless  and  eyebrowless, 
I beheld  four  subjects  of  the  Family  P.  Salcy.  Blue- 
bearded  though  tliey  were,  and  bereft  of  the  youthful 
smoothness  of  cheek  which  is  imparted  by  what  is  termed 
in  Albion  a ^^White-chapel  shave (and  which  is,  in  fact, 
whitening,  judiciously  applied  to  the  jaws  with  the  palm 
of  the  hand),  I recognised  them.  As  I stood  admiring, 
there  emerged  from  the  yard  of  a lowly  Cabaret,  the  excel- 
lent Ma  Mere,  Ma  Mere,  with  the  words,  ^‘The  soup  is 
served;  words  which  so  elated  the  subject  in  the  canvas 
suit,  that  when  they  all  ran  in  to  partake,  he  went  last, 
dancing  with  his  hands  stuck  angularly  into  the  pockets  of 
his  canvas  trousers,  after  the  Pierrot  manner.  Glancing 
down  the  Yard,  the  last  I saw  of  him  was,  that  he  looked 
in  through  a window  (at  the  soup,  no  doubt)  on  one  leg. 

Full  of  this  pleasure,  I shortly  afterwards  departed  from 
the 'town,  little  dreaming  of  an  addition  to  my  good  fortune. 
But  more  was  in  reserve.  I went  by  a train  which  was 
heavy  with  third-class  carriages,  full  , of  young  fellows 
(well  guarded)  who  had  drawn  unlucky  numbers  in  the  last 
conscription,  and  were  on  their  way  to  a famous  Freiicli 
garrison  town  where  much  of  the  raw  military  material  is 
worked  up  into  soldiery.  At  the  station  they  had  been  sit 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


271 


ting  about,  in  their  threadbare  homespun  blue  garments, 
with  their  poor  little  bundles  under  their  arms,  covered 
with  dust  and  clay,  and  the  various  soils  of  France;  sad 
enough  at  heart,  most  of  them,  but  putting  a good  faca 
upon  it,  and  slapping  their  breasts  and  singing  choruses  on 
the  smallest  provocation;  the  gayer  spirits  shouldering  half 
loaves  of  black  bread  speared  upon  their  walking-sticks.  As 
we  went  along,  they  were  audible  at  every  station,  chorus- 
j.ing  wildly  out  of  tune,  and  feigning  the  highest  hilarity. 
?jAfter  a while,  however,  they  began  to  leave  off  singing, 
and  to  laugh  naturally,  while  at  intervals  there  mingled 
with  their  laughter  the  barking  of  a dog.  Now,  I had  to 
alight  short  of  their  destination,  and,  as  that  stoppage  of 
the  train  was  attended  with  a quantity  of  horn  blowing, 
bell  ringing,  and  proclamation  of  what  Messieurs  les  Voy- 
jageurs  were  to  do,  and  were  not  to  dp,  in  order  to  reach 
their  respective  destinations,  I had  ample  leisure  to  go  for- 
ward on  the  platform  to  take  a parting  look  at  my  recruits, 
jwhose  l^ads  were  all  out  at  window,  and  who  were  laugh- 
jing  like  delighted  children.  .Then  I perceived  that  a large 
poodle  with  a pink  nose,  who  had  been  their  travelling 
companion  and  the  cause  of  their  mirth,  stood  on  his  hind- 
legs presenting  arms  on  the  extreme  verge  of  the  platform, 
ready  to  salute  them  as  the  train  went  off.  This  poodle 
wore  a military  shako  (it  is  unnecessary  to  add,  very  much 
on  one  side  over  one  eye),  a little  military  coat,  and  the 
regulation  white  gaiters.  He  was  armed  with  a little  mus- 
ket and  a little  sword-bayonet,  and  he  stood  presenting 
arms  in  perfect  attitude,  with  his  unobscured  eye  on  his 
jiimaster  or  superior  officer,  who  stood  by  him.  So  admira- 
I ble  was  his  discipline,  that,  when  the  train  moved,  and  he 
I was  greeted  with  the  parting  cheers  of  the  recruits,  and 
1,  also  with  a shower  of  centimes,  several  of  which  struck  his 
ii  shako,  and  had  a tendency  to  dtecompose  him,  he  remained 
1|  staunch  on  his  post,  until  the  train  was  gone.  He  then 

11  resigned  his  arms  to  his  officer,  took  off  his  shako  by  rub- 
?bing  his  paw  over  it,  dropped  on  four  legs,  bringing  his 
hiniform  coat  into  the  absurdest  relations  with  the  overarch- 
' aig  skies,  and  ran  about  the  platform  in  his  white  gaiters, 
wagging  his  tail  to  an  exceeding  great  extent.  It  struck  , 
i me  that  there  was  more  waggery  than  this  in  the  poodle, 
l^md  that  he  knew  tlint  the  recruits  would  neither  get 
through  their  exercises,  nor  get  rid  of  their  uniforms,  as 


272  the  uncommercial  TRAVELLER. 

easily  as  he;  revolving  which  in  my  thoughts,  and  seeking 
in  my  pockets  some  small  money  to  bestow  upon  him,  I 
casually  directed  my  eyes  to  the  face  of  his  superior  officer, 
and  in  him  beheld  the  Face-Maker ! Though  it  was  not 
the  way  to  Algeria,  but  quite  the  reverse,  the  military  poo- 
dle’s Colonel  was  the  Face-Maker  in  a dark  blouse,  with  a 
small  bundle  dangling  over  his  shoulder  at  the  end  of  an 
umbrella,  and  taking  a pipe  from  his  breast  to  smoke  as 
he  and  the  poodle  went  their  mysterious  way. 


XXVIII. 


MEDICINE  MEN  OF  CIVILISATION. 


My  voyages  (in  paper  boats)  among  savages  often  yield 
me  matter  for  reflection  at  home.  It  is  curious  to  trace  the 
savage  in  the  civilised  man,  and  to  detect  the  hold  ^f  some 
savage  customs  on  conditions  of  society  rather  boastful  of 
being  high  above  them. 

I wonder,  is  the  Medicine  Man  of  the  North  American 
Indians  never  to  be  got  rid  of,  out  of  the  North  American 
country?  He  comes  into  my  Wigwam  on  all  manner  of 
occasions,  and  with  the  absurdest  Medicine.”  I always 
find  it  extremely  difficult,  and  I often  find  it  simply  im- 
possible, to  keep  him  out  of  my  Wigwam.  For  his  legal 
Medicine  ” he  sticks  upon  his  head  the  hair  of  quadru- 
peds, and  plasters  the  same  with  fat,  and  dirty  white  pow- 
der, and  talks  a gibberish  quite  unknown  to  the  men  and 
squaws  of  his  tribe.  For  his  religious  Medicine  ” he  puts 
on  puffy  white  sleeves,  little  black  aprons,  large  black 
waistcoats  of  a peculiar  cut,  collarless  coats  with  Medicine 
button-holes.  Medicine  stockings  and  gaiters  and  shoes, 
and  tops  the  whole  with  a highly  grotesque  Medicinal  hat. 
In  one  respect,  to  be  sure,  I am  quite  free  from  him.  On 
occasions  when  the  Medicine  Men  in  general,  together  with 
a large  number  of  the  miscellaneous  inhabitants  of  his  vil- 
lage, both  male  and  female,  are  presented  to  the  principal 
Chief,  his  native  Medicine  ” is  a comical  mixture  of  old 
odds  and  ends  (hired  of  traders)  and  new  things  in  anti- 
quated shapes,  and  pieces  of  red  cloth  (of  which  he  is  par- 
ticularly fond),  and  white  and  red  and  blue  paint  for  the 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


273 


face.  The  irrationality  of  this  particular  Medicine  cul- 
minates in  a mock  battle-rush,  from  which  many  of  the 
squaws  are  borne  out,  much  dilapidated.  I need  not  ob- 
serve how  unlike  this  is  to  a Drawing  Room  at  St.  James’s 
Palace. 

The  African  magician  I find  it  very  difiicult  to  exclude 
from  my  Wigwam  too.  This  creature  takes  cases  of  death 
and  mourning  under  his  supervision,  and  will  frequently 
impoverish  a whole  family  by  his  preposterous  enchant- 
ments. He  is  a great  eater  and  drinker,  and  always  con- 
ceals a rejoicing  stomach  under  a grieving  exterior.  His 
charms  consist  of  an  infinite  quantity  of  worthless  scraps, 
for  which  he  charges  very  high.  He  impresses  on  the 
poor  bereaved  natives,  that  the  more  of  his  followers  they 
pay  to  exhibit  such  scraps  on  their  persons  for  an  hour  or 
two  (though  they  never  saw  the  deceased  in  their  lives, 
and  are  put  in  high  spirits  by  his  decease),  the  more  hon- 
ourably and  piously  they  grieve  for  the  dead.  The  poor 
I people,  submitting  themselves  to  this  conjuror,  an  expen- 
sive procession  is  formed,  in  which  bits  of  stick,  feathers 
of  birds,  and  a quantity  of  other  unmeaning  objects  be- 
smeared with  black  paint,  are  carried  in  a certain  ghastly 
order  of  which  no  one  understands  the  meaning,  if  it  ever 
had  any,  to  the  brink  of  the  grave,  and  are  then  brought 
back  again. 

In  the  Tonga  Islands  everything  is  supposed  to  have  a 
soul,  so  that  when  a hatchet  is  irreparably  broken,  they 
say,  ‘‘His  immortal  part  has  departed;  he  is  gone  to  the 
happy  hunting-plains.”  This  belief  leads  to  the  logical 
sequence  that  when  a man  is  buried,  some  of  his  eating 
and  drinking  vessels,  and  some  of  his  warlike  implements, 
must  be  broken  and  buried  with  him.  Superstitious  and 
wrong,  but  surely  a more  respectable  superstition  than 
the  hire  of  antic  scraps  for  a show  that  has  no  meaning 
based  on  any  sincere  belief. 

Let  me  halt  on  my  Uncommercial  road,  to  throw  a pass- 
ing glance  on  some  funeral  solemnities  that  I have  seen 
where  North  American  Indians,  African  Magicians,  and 
Tonga  Islanders,  are  supposed  not  to  be. 

Once,  I dwelt  in  an  Italian  city,  where  there  dwelt  witR 
me  for  a while,  an  Englishman  of  an  amiable  nature,  great 
enthusiasm,  and  no  discretion.  This  friend  discovered  a 
desolate  stranger,  mourning  over  the  unexpected  death  of 
18 


274 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

one  very  dear  to  him,  in  a solitary  cottage  among  the  vine- 
yards of  an  outlying  village.  The  circumstances  of  the 
bereavement  were  unusually  distressing;  and  the  survivor 
new  to  the  peasants  and  the  country,  sorely  needed  help 
being  alone  with  the  remains.  With  some  difficulty,  but 
with  the  strong  influence  of  a purpose  at  once  gentle,  disin- 
terested, and  determined,  my  friend— Mr.  Kindheart— ob- 
tained access  to  the  mourner,  and  undertook  to  arrange  the 
burial.  ^ 

There  was  a small  Protestant  cemetery  near  the  city 
walls,  and  as  Mr.  Kindheart  came  back  to  me,  he  turned 
into  It  and  chose  the  spot.  He  was  always  highly  flushed 
when  rendering  a service  unaided,  and  I knew  that  to  make 
him  happy  I must  keep  aloof  from  his  ministration.  But 
when  at  dinner  he  warmed  with  the  good  action  of  the  day 
and  conceived  the  brilliant  idea  of  comforting  the  mourner 
with  ‘^an  English  funeral,  I ventured  to  intimate  that  I 
thought  that  institution,  which  was  not  absolutely  sublime 
at  home,  might  prove  a failure  in  Italian  hands.  However 
Mr.  Kindheart  was  so  enraptured  with  his  conception,  that 
he  presently  wrote  down  into  the  town  requesting  the  at- 
tendance with  to-morrow’s  earliest  light  of  a certain  little 
upholsterer.^  This  upholsterer  was  famous  for  speaking 
t e unintelligible  local  dialect  (his  own)  in  a far  more  un- 
intelligible manner  than  any  other  man  alive. 

When  from  my  bath  next  morning  I overheard  Mr.  Kind- 
heart  and  the  upholsterer  in  conference  on  the  top  of  an 
echoing  staircase;  and  when  I overheard  Mr.  Kindheart 
rendering  English  Undertaking  phrases  into  very  choice 
Italian,  and  the  upholsterer  replying  in  the  unknown 
Tongues;  and  when  I furthermore  remembered  that  the 
local  funerals  had  no  resemblance  to  English  funerals;  I 
became  in  my  secret  bosom  apprehensive.  But  Mr.  Kind- 
heart  informed  me  at  breakfast  that  measures  had  been 
taken  to  ensure  a signal  success. 

As  the  funeral  was  to  take  place  at  sunset,  and  as  I 
knew  to  which  of  the  city  gates  it  must  tend,  I went  out  at 
that  gate  as  the  sun  descended,  and  walked  along  the 
dusty,  dusty  road.  I had  not  walked  far,  when  I encoun- 
tered  this  procession : 

1.  Mr.  Kindheart,  much  abashed,  on  an  immense  grev 

horse.  I 

2.  A bright  yellow  coach  and  pair,  driven  by  a coach-  j 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


275 


man  in  bright  red  velvet  knee-breeches  and  waistcoat. 
(This  was  the  established  local  idea  of  State.)  Both  coach 
doors  kept  open  by  the  coffin,  which  was  on  its  side  within, 
and  sticking  out  at  each. 

3.  Behind  the  coach,  the  mourner,  for  whom  the  coach 
was  intended,  walking  in  the  dust. 

4.  Concealed  behind  a roadside  well  for  the  irrigation 
of  a garden,  the  unintelligible  Upholsterer,  admiring. 

It  matters  little  now.  Coaches  of  all  colours  are  alike  to 
poor  Kindheart,  and  he  rests  far  North  of  the  little  ceme- 
tery with  the  cypress-trees,  by  the  city  walls  where  the 
Mediterranean  is  so  beautiful. 

My  first  funeral,  a fair  representative  funeral  after  its 
kind,  was  that  of  the  husband  of  a married  servant,  once 
my  nurse.  She  married  for  money.  Sally  Flanders,  after 
a year  or  two  of  matrimony,  became  the  relict  of  Flanders, 
a small  master  builder;  and  either  she  or  Flanders  had 
done  me  the  honour  to  express  a desire  that  I should  fol- 
low.^^  I may  have  been  seven  or  eight  years  old; — young 
enough,  certainly,  to  feel  rather  alarmed  by  the  expression, 
as  not  knowing  where  the  invitation  was  held  to  terminate, 
and  how  far  I was  expected  to  follow  the  deceased  Flan- 
ders. Consent  being  given  by  the  heads  of  houses,  I was 
jobbed  up  into  what  was  pronounced  at  home  decent  mourn- 
ing (comprehending  somebody  else’s  shirt,  unless  my  mem- 
ory deceives  me),  and  was  admonished  that  if,  when  the 
funeral  was  in  action,  I put  my  hands  in  my  pockets,  or 
took  my  eyes  out  of  my  pocket-handkerchief,  I was  per- 
sonally lost,  and  my  family  disgraced.  On  the  eventful 
day,  having  tried  to  get  myself  into  a disastrous  frame  of 
mind,  and  having  formed  a very  poor  opinion  of  myself  be- 
cause I couldn^t  cry,  I repaired  to  Sally^s.  Sally  was  an 
excellent  creature,  and  had  been  a good  wife  to  old  Flan- 
ders, but  the  moment  I saw  her  I knew  that  she  was  not  in 
her  own  real  natural  state.  She  formed  a sort  of  Coat  of 
Arms,  grouped  with  a smelling-bottle,  a handkerchief,  an 
orange,  a bottle  of  vinegar,  Flanders’s  sister,  her  own  sister, 
Flanders’s  brother’s  wife,  and  two  neighbouring  gossips — 
all  in  mourning,  and  all  ready  to  hold  her  whenever  she 
fainted.  At  sight  of  poor  little  me  she  became  much  agi- ' 
bated  (agitating  me  much  more),  and  having  exclaimed,  ^^0 
here’s  dear  Master  Uncommercial ! ” became  hysterical,  and 
swooned  as  if  I had  been  the  death  of  her.  An  affecting 


270 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


scene  followed,  during  which  I was  handed  about  and 
poked  at  her  by  various  people,  as  if  I were  the  bottle  of 
salts.  Reviving  a little,  she  embraced  me,  said,  You 
knew  him  well,  dear  Master  Uncommercial,  and  he  knew 
youI^Uand  fainted  again:  which,  as  the  rest  of  the  Coat 
of  Arms  soothingly  said,  ^^done  her  credit.”  Now,  I knew 
that  she  needn^t  have  fainted  unless  she  liked,  and  that 
she  wouldn’t  have  fainted  unless  it  had  been  expected  of 
her,  quite  as  well  as  I know  it  at  this  day.  It  made  me 
feel  uncomfortable  and  hypocritical  besides.  I was  not 
sure  but  that  it  might  be  manners  in  me  to  faint  next,  and 
I resolved  to  keep  my  eye  on  Flanders’s  uncle,  and  if  I saw 
any  signs  of  his  going  in  that  direction,  to  go  too,  politely. 
But  Flanders’s  uncle  (who  was  a weak  little  old  retail 
grocer)  had  only  one  idea,  which  was  that  we  all  wanted 
tea;  and  he  handed  us  cups  of  tea  all  round,  incessantly, 
whether  we  refused  or  not.  There  was  a young  nephew  of 
Flanders’s  present,  to  whom  Flanders,  it  was  rumoured, 
had  left  nineteen  guineas.  He  drank  all  the  tea  that  was 
offered  him,  this  nephew — amounting,  I should  say,  to 
several  quarts — and  ate  as  much  plum-cake  as  he  could 
possibly  come  by;  but  he  felt  it  to  be  decent  mourning  that 
he  should  now  and  then  stop  in  the  midst  of  a lump  of 
cake,  and  appear  to  forget  that  his  mouth  was  full,  in  the 
contemplation  of  his  uncle’s  memory.  I felt  all  this  to  be 
the  fault  of  the  undertaker,  who  was  handing  us  gloves  on 
a tea-tray  as  if  they  were  muffins,  and  tying  us  into  cloaks 
(mine  had  to  be  pinned  up  all  round,  it  was  so  long  for 
me),  because  I knew  that  he  was  making  game.  So,  when 
we  got  out  into  the  streets,  and  I constantly  disarranged  the 
procession  by  tumbling  on  the  people  before  me  l)ecause 
my  handkerchief  blinded  my  eyes,  and  tripping  up  the  peo- 
ple behind  me  because  my  cloak  was  so  long,  I felt  that 
we  were  all  making  game.  I was  truly  sorry  for  Flanders, 
but  I knew  that  it  was  no  reason  why  we  should  be  trying ; 
(the  women  with  their  heads  in  hoods  like  coal-scuttles 
with  the  black  side  outward)  to  keep  step  with  a man  in  a 
scarf,  carrying  a thing  like  a mourning  spy-glass,  which  he 
was  going  to  open  presently  and  sweep  the  horizon  with. 

I knew  that  we  should  not  all  have  been  speaking  in  one 
particular  key-note  struck  by  the  undertaker,  if  we  had  not 
been  making  game.  Even  in  our  faces  we  were  every  one 
of  us  as  like  the  undertaker  as  if  we  had  been  his  own  fam- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


277 


ily,  and  I perceived  that  this  could  not  have  happened  unless 
we  had  been  making  game.  When  we  returned  to  Sally's, 
it  was  all  of  a piece.  The  continued  impossibility  of  get- 
ting on  without  plum-cake;  the  ceremonious  apparition  of 
a pair  of  decanters  containing  port  and  sherry  and  cork; 
Sally's  sister  at  the  tea-table,  clinking  the  best  crockery 
,and  shaking  her  head  mournfully  every  time  she  looked 
,.down  into  the  teapot,  as  if  it  were  the  tomb;  the  Coat  of 
Anns  again,  and  Sally  as  before;  lastly,  the  words  of  con- 
solation administered  to  Sally  when  it  was  considered  right 
that  she  should  ^‘come  round  nicely:"  which  were,  that 
the  deceased  had  had  ^^as  com-for-ta-ble  a fu-ne-ral  as 
comfortable  could  be ! " 

Other  funerals  have  I seen  with  grown-up  eyes,  since 
that  day,  of  which  the  burden  has  been  the  same  childish 
burden.  Making  game.  Keal  affliction,  real  grief  and 
'solemnity,  have  been  outraged,  and  the  funeral  has  been 
■^performed."  The  waste  for  which  the  funeral  customs 
jof  many  tribes  of  savages  are  conspicuous,  has  attended 
these  civilised  obsequies;  and  once,  and  twice,  have  I 
wished  in  my  soul  that  if  the  waste  must  be,  they  would 
let  the  undertaker  bury  the  money,  and  let  me  bury  the 
friend. 

In  France,  upon  the  whole,  these  ceremonies  are  more 
sensibly  regulated,  because  they  are  upon  the  whole  less 
expensively  regulated.  I cannot  say  that  I have  ever  been 
jinuch  edified  by  the  custom  of  t3ung  a bib  and  apron  on 
bhe  front  of  the  house  of  mourning,  or  that  I would  myself 
particularly  care  to  be  driven  to  my  grave  in  a nodding 
ind  bobbing  car,  like  an  infirm  four-post  bedstead,  by  an 
iiky  fellow-creature  in  a cocked-hat.  But  it  may  be  that 
[ am  constitutionally  insensible  to  the  virtues  of  a cocked- 
lat.  In  provincial  France,  the  solemnities  are  sufficiently 
lideous,  but  are  few  and  cheap.  The  friends  and  towns- 
nen  of  the  departed,  in  their  own  dresses  and  not  mas- 
luerading  under  the  auspices  of  the  African  Conjuror, 
;urround  tlie  hand-bier,  and  often  carry  it.  It  is  not 
considered  indispensable  to  stifle  the  bearers,  or  even  to 
elevate  the  burden  on  their  shoulders;  consequently  it  is 
easily  taken  up,  and  easily  set  down,  and  is  carried  through  ' 
he  streets  without  the  distressing  floundering  and  shuffling 
hat  we  see  at  home.  A dirty  priest  or  two,  and  a dirtier 
,-colyte  or  two'  do  not  lend  any  especial  grace  to  the  pro- 


278 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


ceedings;  and  I regard  with  personal  animosity  the  bas- 
soon, which  is  blown  at  intervals  by  the  big  legged  priest 
(it  is  always  a big  legged  priest  who  blows  the  bassoon), 
when  his  fellows  combine  in  a lugubrious  stalwart  drawl. 
But  there  is  far  less  of  the  Conjuror  and  the  Medicine  Man 
in  the  business  than  under  like  circumstances  here.  The 
grim  coaches  that  we  reserve  expressly  for  such  shows,  are 
non-existent;  if  the  cemetery  be  far  out  of  the  town,  the 
coaches  that  are  hired  for  other  purposes  of  life  are  hired 
for  this  purpose;  and  although  the  honest  vehicles  make 
no  pretence  of  being  overcome,  I have  never  noticed  that 
the  people  in  them  were  the  worse  for  it.  In  Italy,  the 
hooded  Members  of  Confraternities  who  attend  on  funerals, 
are  dismal  and  ugly  to  look  upon;  but  the  services  they 
render  are  at  least  voluntarily  rendered,  and  impoverish  no 
one,  and  cost  nothing.  Why  should  high  civilisation  and 
low  savagery  ever  come  together  on  the  point  of  making 
them  a wantonly  wasteful  and  contemptible  set  of  forms? 

Once  I lost  a friend  by  death,  who  had  been  troubled  in 
his  time  by  the  Medicine  Man  and  the  Conjuror,  and  upon 
whose  limited  resources  there  were  abundant  claims.  The 
Conjuror  assured  me  that  I must  positively  follow,’^  and 
both  he  and  the  Medicine  Man  entertained  no  doubt  that  I 
must  go  in  a black  carriage,  and  must  wear  fittings.’^  I 
objected  to  fittings  as  having  nothing  to  do  with  my  friend- 
ship, and  I objected  to  the  black  carriage  as  being  in  more 
senses  than  one  a job.  So,  it  came  into  my  mind  to  try 
what  would  happen  if  I quietly  walked,  in  my  own  way, 
from  my  own  house  to  my  friend’s  burial-place,  and  stood 
beside  his  open  grave  in  my  own  dress  and  person,  rever- 
ently listening  to  the  best  of  Services.  It  satisfied  my 
mind,  I found,  quite  as  well  as  if  I had  been  disguised  in 
a hired  hatband  and  scarf  both  trailing  to  my  very  heels, 
and  as  if  I had  cost  the  orphan  children,  in  their  greatest 
need,  ten  guineas. 

Can  any  one  who  ever  beheld  the  stupendous  absurdities 
attendant  on  A message  from  the  Lords  ” in  the  House 
of  Commons,  turn  upon  the  Medicine  Man  of  the  poor  In- 
dians? Has  he  any  ‘^Medicine”  in  that  dried  skin  pouch 
of  his,  so  supremely  ludicrous  as  the  two  Masters  in  Chan- 
cery holding  up  their  black  petticoats  and  butting  their 
ridiculous  wigs  at  Mr.  Speaker?  Yet  there  are  authorities 
innumerable  to  tell  me — as  there  are  authorities  innumera- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


279 


ble  among  the  Indians  to  tell  them — that  the  nonsense  is 
indispensable,  and  that  its  abrogation  would  involve  most 
awful  consequences.  What  would  any  rational  creature 
who  had  never  heard  of  judicial  and  forensic fittings,” 
think  of  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas  on  the  first  day  of 
Term?  Or  with  what  an  awakened  sense  of  humour  would 
Livingstone’s  account  of  a similar  scene  be  perused,  if 
the  fur  and  red  cloth  and  goats’  hair  and  horse  hair  and 
powdered  chalk  and  black  patches  on  the  top  of  the  head, 
were  all  at  Tala  Mungongo  instead  of  Westminster?  That 
model  missionary  and  good  brave  man  found  at  least  one 
tribe  of  blacks  with  a very  strong  sense  of  the  ridiculous, 
insomuch  that  although  an  amiable  and  docile  people,  they 
never  could  see  the  Missionaries  dispose  of  their  legs  in  the 
attitude  of  kneeling,  or  hear  them  begin  a hymn  in  chorus, 
without  bursting  into  roars  of  irrepressible  laughter.  It 
is  much  to  be  hoped  that  no  member  of  this  facetious  tribe 
may  ever  find  his  way  to  England  and  get  committed  for 
contempt  of  Court. 

In  the  Tonga  Island  already  mentioned,  there  are  a set 
of  personages  called  Mataboos — or  some  such  name — who 
are  the  masters  of  all  the  public  ceremonies,  and  who  know 
the  exact  place  in  which  every  chief  must  sit  down  when  a 
solemn  public  meeting  takes  place : a meeting  which  bears 
a family  resemblance  to  our  own  Public  Dinner,  in  respect 
of  its  being  a main  part  of  the  proceedings  that  every  gen- 
tleman present  is  required  to  drink  something  nasty. 
These  Mataboos  ai*e  a privileged  order,  so  important  is  their 
avocation,  and  they  make  the  most  of  their  high  functions. 
A long  way  out  of  the  Tonga  Islands,  indeed,  rather  near 
the  British  Islands,  was  there  no  calling  in  of  the  Mataboos 
the  other  day  to  settle  an  earth-convulsing  question  of  pre- 
cedence; and  was  there  no  weighty  opinion  delivered  on 
the  part  of  the  Mataboos  which,  being  interpreted  to  that 
unlucky  tribe  of  blacks  with  the  Bense  of  the  ridiculous, 
would  infallibly  set  the  whole  population  screaming  with 
laughter? 

My  sense  of  justice  demands  the  admission,  however, 
that  this  is  not  quite  a one-sided  question.  If  we  submit 
ourselves  meekly  to  the  Medicine  Man  and  the  Conjuror^ 
and  are  not  exalted  by  it,  the  savages  may  retort  upon  us 
that  we  act  more  unwisely  than  Uiey  in  other  matters 
wherein  we  fail  to  imitate  them.  It  is  a widely  diffused 


280  the  uncommercial  TRAVELLER. 

custorn  among  savage  tribes,  when  they  meet  to  discuss 
any  affair  of  pui)lic  importance,  to  sit  up  all  night  making 
a horrible  noise,  dancing,  blowing  shells,  and  (in  cases 
where  they  are  familiar  with  fire-arms)  flying  out  into  open 
places  and  letting  off  guns.  It  is  questionable  whether  our 
legislative  assemblies  might  not  take  a hint  from  this.  A 
shell  is  not  a melodious  wind-instrument,  and  it  is  monoto- 
nous; but  it  is  as  musical  as,  and  not  more  monotonous 
than,  my  Honourable  friend’s  own  trumpet,  or  the  trumpet 
that  he  blows  so  hard  for  the  Minister.  The  uselessness 
of  arguing  with  any  supporter  of  a Government  or  of  an 
Opposition,  is  well  known.  Try  dancing.  It  is  a better 
exercise,  and  has  the  unspeakable  recommendation  that  it 
couldn’t  be  reported.  The  honourable  and  savage  member 
who  has  a loaded  gun,  and  has  grown  impatient  of  debate, 
plunges  out  of  doors,  fires  in  the  air,  and  returns  calm  and 
silent  to  the  Palaver.  Let  the  honourable  and  civilised 
member  similarly  charged  with  a speech,  dart  into  the 
cloisters  of  Westminster  Abbey  in  the  silence  of  night,  let 
his  speech  off,  and  come  back  harmless.  It  is  not  at  first 
sight  a very  rational  custom  to  paint  a broad  blue  stripe 
across  one’s  nose  and  both  cheeks,  and  a broad  red  stripe 
from  the  forehead  to  the  chin,  to  attach  a few  pounds  of 
wood  to  one’s  under  lip,  to  stick  fish-bones  in  one’s  ears 
and  a brass  curtain-ring  in  one’s  nose,  and  to  rub  one’s 
body  all  over  with  rancid  oil,  as  a preliminary  to  entering 
on  business.  But  this  is  a question  of  taste  and  ceremony, 
and  so  is  the  Windsor  Uniform.  The  manner  of  entering 
on  the  business  itself  is  another  question.  A council  of  six 
hundred  savage  gentlemen  entirely  independent  of  tailors, 
sitting  on  their  hams  in  a ring,  smoking,  and  occasionally 
grunting,  seem  to  me,  according  to  the  experience  I have 
gathered  in  my  voyages  and  travels,  somehow  to  do  what 
they  come  together  for;  whereas  that  is  not  at  all  the  gen- 
eral experience  of  a council  of  six  hundred  civilised  gentle- 
men very  dependent  on  tailors  and  sitting  on  mechanical 
contrivances.  It  is  better  that  an  Assembly  should  do  its 
utmost  to  envelop  itself  in  smoke,  than  that  it  should  direct 
its  endeavours  to  enveloping  the  public  in  smoke;  and  I 
would  rather  it  buried  half  a hundred  hatchets  than  buried 
one  subject  demanding  attention. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


281 


XXIX. 

TITBULL’S  ALMS-HOUSES. 

By  the  side  of  most  railways  out  of  London,  one  may  see 
Alms-Houses  and  Ke treats  (generally  with  a Wing  or  a 
Centre  wanting,  and  ambitious  of  being  much  bigger  than 
,.they  are),  some  of  which  are  newly-founded  Institutions, 
and  some  old  establishments  transplanted.  There  is  a ten- 
dency in  these  pieces  of  architecture  to  shoot  upward  unex- 
pectedly, like  Jack’s  bean-stalk,  and  to  be  ornate  in  spires 
of  Chapels  and  lanterns  of  Halls,  which  might  lead  to  the 
, embellishment  of  the  air  with  many  castles  of  questionable 
beauty  but  for  the  restraining  consideration  of  expense. 
However,  the  managers,  being  always  of  a sanguine  tem- 
Iperament,  comfort  themselves  with  plans  and  elevations  of 
Loomings  in  the  future,  and  are  influenced  in  the  present 
by  philanthropy  towards  the  railway  passengers.  For,  the 
question  how  prosperous  and  promising  the  buildings  can 
be  made  to  look  in  their  eyes,  usually  supersedes  the  lesser 
question  how  they  can  be  turned  to  the  best  account  for  the 
inmates. 

Why  none  of  the  people  who  reside  in  these  places  ever 
look  out  of  window,  or  take  an  airing  in  the  piece  of  ground 
which  is  going  to  be  a garden  by-and-bye,  is  one  of  the 
wonders  I have  added  to  my  always-lengthening  list  of  the 
wonders  of  the  world.  I have  got  it  into  my  mind  that 
they  live  in  a state  of  chronic  injury  and  resentment,  and 
on  that  account  refuse  to  decorate  the  building  with  a 
human  interest.  As  I have  known  legatees  deeply  injured 
by  a bequest  of  five  hundred  pounds  because  it  was  not  five 
thousand,  and  as  I was  once  acquainted  with  a pensioner 
on  the  Public  to  the  extent  of  two  hundred  a year,  who 
perpetually  anathematised  his  Country  because  he  was  not 
in  the  receipt  of  four,  having  no  claim  whatever  to  six- 
pence : so  perhaps  it  usually  happens,  within  certain  limits, 
that  to  get  a little  help  is  to  get  a notion  of  being  defrauded^ 
of  more.  ‘‘How  do  they  pass  their  lives  in  this  beautiful 
and  peaceful  place ! ” was  the  subject  of  my  speculation 
with  a visitor  who  once  accompanied  me  to  a charming 


282  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

rustic  retreat  for  old  men  and  women:  a quaint  ancient 
foundation  in  a pleasant  English  county,  behind  a pictu- 
resque church  and  among  rich  old  convent  gardens.  There 
were  but  some  dozen  or  so  of  houses,  and  we  agreed  that 
we  would  talk  with  the  inhabitants,  as  they  sat  in  their 
groined  rooms  bet  ween  the  light  of  their  fires  and  the  light 
shining  in  at  their  latticed  windows,  and  would  find  out. 
They  passed  their  lives  in  considering  themselves  mulcted 
of  certain  ounces  of  tea  by  a deaf  old  steward  who  lived 
among  them  in  the  quadrangle.  There  was  no  reason  to 
suppose  that  any  such  ounces  of  tea  had  ever  been  in  exist- 
ence, or  that  the  old  steward  so  much  as  knew  what  was 
the  matter; — he  passed  . life  in  considering  himself 
periodically  defrauded  of  a birch-broom  by  the  beadle. 

But  it  is  neither  to  old  Alms-Houses  in  the  country, 
nor  to  new  Alms-Houses  by  the  railroad,  that  these  pres- 
ent Uncommercial  notes  relate.  They  refer  back  to  jour- 
neys made  among  those  common-place  smoky-fronted  Lon- 
don Alms-Houses,  with  a little  paved  court-yard  in  front 
enclosed  by  iron  railings,  which  have  got  snowed  up,  as  it 
were,  by  bricks  and  mortar;  which  were  once  in  a suburb, 
but  are  now  in  the  densely  populated  town;  gaps  in  the 
busy  life  around  them,  parentheses  in  the  close  and  blotted 
texts  of  the  streets. 

Sometimes,  these  Alms-Houses  belong  to  a Company  or 
Society.  Sometimes,  they  were  established  by  individuals, 
and  are  maintained  out  of  private  funds  bequeathed  in 
perpetuity  long  ago.  My  favourite  among  them  is  Tit- 
bulPs,  which  establishment  is  a picture  of  many.  Of  Tit- 
bull  I know  no  more  than  that  he  deceased  in  1723,  that 
his  Christian  name  was  Sampson,  and  his  social  designa- 
tion Esquire,  and  that  he  founded  these  Alms-Houses  as 
Dwellings  for  Nine  Poor  Women  and  Six  Poor  Men  by  his 
Will  and  Testament.  I should  not  know  even  this  much, 
but  for  its  being  inscribed  on  a grim  stone  very  difficult  to 
read,  let  into  the  front  of  the  centre  house  of  TitbulLs 
Alms-Houses,  and  which  stone  is  ornamented  a-top  with  a 
piece  of  sculptured  drapery  resembling  the  effigy  of  Tit- 
bulLs  bath- towel. 

TitbulLs  Alms-Houses  are  in  the  east  of  London,  in  a 
great  highway,  in  a poor  busy  and  thronged  neighbourhood. 
Old  iron  and  fried  fish,  cough  drops  and  artificial  flowers, 
boiled  pigs’-feet  and  household  furniture  that  looks  as  if 


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283 


it  were  polished  up  with  lip-salve,  umbrellas  full  of  vocal 
literature  and  saucers  full  of  shell-fish  in  a green  juice 
which  I hope  is  natural  to  them  when  their  health  is  good, 
garnish  the  paved  sideways  as  you  go  to  TitbulPs.  I take 
the  ground  to  have  risen  in  those  parts  since  TitbulRs  time, 
and  you  drop  into  his  domain  by  three  stone  steps.  So  did 
I first  drop  into  it,  very  nearly  striking  my  brows  against 
TitbulPs  pump,  which  stands  with  its  back  to  the  thorough- 
fare just  inside  the  gate,  and  has  a conceited  air  of  review- 
ing TitbulPs  pensioners. 

‘‘And  a worse  one,”  said  a virulent  old  man  with  a 
pitcher,  “there  isn’t  nowhere.  A harder  one  to  work,  nor 
a grudginer  one  to  yield,  there  isn’t  nowhere ! ” This  old 
man  wore  a long  coat,  such  as  we  see  Hogarth’s  Chairmen 
represented  with,  and  it  was  of  that  peculiar  green-pea  hue 
without  the  green,  which  seems  to  come  of  poverty.  It 
had  also  that  peculiar  smell  of  cupboard  which  seems  to 
come  of  poverty. 

i “The  pump  is  rusty,  perhaps,”  said  I. 

“Not  ^7,”  said  the  old  man,  regarding  it  with  undiluted 
virulence  in  his  watery  eye.  “ It  never  were  fit  to  be 
termed  a pump.  That’s  what’s  the  matter  with 

“ Whose  fault  is  that  ? ” said  I. 

The  old  man,  who  had  a working  mouth  which  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  masticate  his  anger  and  to  find  that  it  was 
too  hard  and  there  was  too  much  of  it,  replied,  “Them 
gentlemen.” 

“ What  gentlemen?  ” 

“Maybe  you’re  one  of  ’em?”  said  the  old  man,  suspi- 
ciously. 

“ The  trustees?  ” 

“ I wouldn’t  trust  ’em  myself,”  said  the  virulent  old  mah. 

“ If  you  mean  the  gentlemen  who  administer  this  place, 
no,  I am  not  one  of  them;  nor  have  I ever  so  much  as 
heard  of  them.” 

“I  wish  1 never  heard  of  them,”  gasped  the  old  man: 
“ at  my  time  of  life — with  the  rheumatics — drawing  water 
— from  that  thing!”  Noc  to  be  deluded  into  calling  it  a 
Pump,  the  old  man  gave  it  another  virulent  look,  took  up 
his  pitcher,  and  carried  .it  into  a corner  dwelling-house,, 
shutting  the  door  after  him. 

Looking  around  and  seeing  that  each  little  house  was  a 
house  of  two  little  rooms;  and  seeing  that  the  little  oblong 


284 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER, 


court-yard  in  front  was  like  a graveyard  for  the  inhabi- 
tants, saving  that  no  word  was  engraven  on  its  flat  dry 
stones;  and  seeing  that  the  currents  of  life  and  noise  ran 
to  and  fro  outside,  having  no  more  to  do  with  the  place 
than  if  it  were  a sort  of  low- water  mark  on  a lively  beach; 
I say,  seeing  this  and  nothing  else,  I was  going  out  at  the 
gate  when  one  of  the  doors  opened. 

Was  you  looking  for  anything,  sir?  ” asked  a tidy  well- 
favoured  woman. 

Eeally,  no;  I couldn’t  say  I was. 

^^Not  wanting  any  one,  sir?  ” 

^^No — at  least  I — pray  what  is  the  name  of  the  elderly 
gentleman  who  lives  in  the  corner  there?  ” 

^ The  tidy  woman  stepped  out  to  be  sure  of  the  door  I in- 
dicated, and  she  and  the  pump  and  I stood  all  three  in  a 
row  with  our  backs  to  the  thoroughfare. 

''Oh!  His  name  is  Mr.  Battens,’’  said  the  tidy  woman, 
dropping  her  voice. 

"I  have  just  been  talking  with  hiim” 

" Indeed?  ” said  the  tidy  woman.  " Ho ! I wonder  Mr. 
Battens  talked ! ” 

" Is  he  usually  so  silent?  ” 

"Well,  Mr.  Battens  is  the  oldest  here — that  is  to  say, 
the  oldest  of  the  old  gentlemen — in  point  of  residence.” 

She  had  a way  of  passing  her  hands  over  and  under  one 
another  as  she  spoke,  that  was  not  only  tidy  but  propitia- 
tory; so  I asked  her  if  I might  look  at  her  little  sitting- 
room?  She  willingly  replied  Yes,  and  we  went  into  it 
together : she  leaving  the  door  open,  with  an  eye  as  I un- 
derstood to  the  social  proprieties.  The  door  opening  at  once 
into  the  room  without* any  intervening  entry,  even  scandal 
must  have  been  silenced  by  the  precaution. 

It  was  a gloomy  little  chamber,  but  clean,  and  with  a 
mug  of  wallflower  in  the  window.  On  the  chimney-piece 
were  two  peacock’s  feathers,  a carved  ship,  a few  shells, 
and  a black  profile  with  one  eyelash;  whether  this  portrait 
purported  to  be  male  or  female  passed  my  comprehension, 
until  my  hostess  informed  me  that  it  was  her  only  son,  and 
"quite  a speaking  one.” 

" He  is  alive,  I hope?  ” 

" No,  sir,”  said  the  widow,  " he  were  cast  away  in  China.” 
This  was  said  with  a modest  sense  of  its  reflecting  a certain 
geographical  distinction  on  his  mother. 


THE  UNCOMMEJlCIxVL  TRAVELLER. 


285 


‘‘If  the  old  gentlemen  here  are  not  given  to  talking,” 
said  I,  “I  hope  the  old  ladies  are? — not  that  you  are  one.” 
She  shook  her  head.  “ You  see  they  get  so  cross.” 
“How  is  that?  ” 

“ Well,  whether  the  gentlemen  really  do  deprive  us  of 
any  little  matters  which  ought  to  be  ours  by  rights,  I can- 
not say  for  certain;  but  the  opinion  of  the  old  ones  is  they 
do.  And  Mr,  Battens  he  do  even  go  so  far  as  to  doubt 
whether  credit  is  due  to  the  Founder.  For  Mr.  Battens  he 
do  say,  anyhow  he  got  his  name  up  by  it  and  he  done  it 
cheap.” 

“I  am  afraid  the  pump  has  soured  Mr.  Battens.” 

“It  may  be  so,”  returned  the  tidy  widow,  “but  the 
handle  does  go  very  hard.  Still,  what  I say  to  myself  is, 
the  gentleman  may  not  pocket  the  difference  between  a 
good  pump  and  a bad  one,  and  I would  wish  to  think  well 
of  them.  And  the  dwellings,”  said  my  hostess,  glancing 
round  her  room;  “perhaps  they  were  convenient  dwellings 
in  the  Founder’s  time,  considered  as  his  time,  and  there- 
fore he  should  not  be  blamed.  But  Mrs.  Saggers  is  very 
hard  upon  them.” 

“Mrs.  Saggers  is  the  oldest  here?” 

“ The  oldest  but  one.  Mrs.  Quinch  being  the  oldest,  and 
have  totally  lost  her  head.” 

“ And  you?  ” 

“ I am  the  youngest  in  residence,  and  consequently  am 
not  looked  up  to.  But  when  Mrs.  Quinch  makes  a happy 
release,  there  will  be  one  below  me.  Nor  is  it  to  be  ex- 
pected that  Mrs.  Saggers  will  prove  herself  immortal.” 
“True.  Nor  Mr.  Battens.” 

“Regarding  the  old  gentlemen,”  said  my  widow  slight- 
ingly, “ they  count  among  themselves.  They  do  not  count 
among  us.  Mr.  Battens  is  that  exceptional  that  he  have 
written  to  the  gentlemen  many  times  and  have  worked 
the  case  against  them.  Therefore  he  have  took  a higher 
ground.  But  we  do  not,  as  a rule,  greatly  reckon  the  old 
gentlemen.” 

Pursuing  the  subject,  I found  it  to  be  traditionally  set- 
tled among  the  poor  ladies  that  the  poor  gentlemen,  what- 
ever their  ages,  were  all  very  old  indeed,  and  in  a state  of 
dotage.  I also  discovered  that  the  juniors  and  new  comers 
preserved,  for  a time,  a waning  disposition  to  believe  in 
Titbull  and  his  trustees,  but  that  as  they  gained  social 


286 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Standing  they  lost  this  faith,  and  disparaged  Titbull  and 
all  his  works. 

Improving  my  acquaintance  subsequently  with  this  re- 
spected lady,  whose  name  was  Mrs.  Mitts,  and  occasionally 
dropping  in  upon  her  with  a little  offering  of  sound  Family 
Hyson  iii  my  pocket,  I gradually  became  familiar  with  the 
inner  politics  and  ways  of  Titbull’s  Alms-Houses.  But  I 
never  could  find  out  who  the  trustees  were,  or  where  they 
were : it  being  one  of  the  fixed  ideas  of  the  place  that  those 
authorities  must  be  vaguely  and  mysteriously  mentioned  as 
“ the  gentlemen  ” only.  The  secretary  of  “ the  gentlemen  ” 
was  once  pointed  out  to  me,  evidently  engaged  in  cham- 
pioning the  obnoxious  pump  against  the  attacks  of  the  dis- 
contented Mr.  Battens;  but  I am  not  in  a condition  to  re- 
port further  of  him  than  that  he  had  the  sprightly  bearing 
of  a lawyer’s  clerk.  I had  it  from  Mrs.  Mitts’s  lips  in  a 
very  confidential  moment,  that  Mr.  Battens  was  once  “ had 
up  before  the  gentlemen  ” to  stand  or  fall  by  his  accusations, 
and  that  an  old  shoe  was  thrown  after  him  on  his  depart- 
ure from  the  building  on  this  dread  errand;— -not  ineffectu- 
ally, for,  the  interview  resulting  in  a plumber,  was  con- 
sidered to  have  encircled  the  temples  of  Mr.  Battens  with 
the  wreath  of  victory. 

In  Titbull’s  Alms-Houses,  the  local  society  is  not  re- 
garded as  good  society.  A gentleman  or  lady  receiving  vis- 
itors from  without,  or  going  out  to  tea,  counts,  as  it  were, 
accordingly;  but  visitings  or  tea-drinkings  interchanged 
among  Titbullians  do  not  score.  Such  interchanges,  how- 
ever, are  rare,  in  consequence  of  internal  dissensions  occa- 
sioned by  Mrs.  Saggers’s  pail:  which  household  article 
has  split  Titbull’s  into  almost  as  many  parties  as  there  are 
dwellings  in  that  precinct.  The  extremely  complicated 
nature  of  the  conflicting  articles  of  belief  on  the  subject 
prevents  my  stating  them  here  with  my  usual  perspicuity, 
but  I think  they  have  all  branched  off  from  the  root-and- 
trunk  question.  Has  Mrs.  Saggers  any  right  to  stand  her 
pail  outside  her  dwelling?  The  question  has  been  much 
refined  upon,  but  roughly  stated  may  be  stated  in  those 
terms. 

There  are  two  old  men  in  Titbull’s  Alms-Houses  who,  I 
have  been  given  to  understand,  knew  each  other  in  the 
world  beyond  its  pump  and  iron  railings,  when  they  were 
both  “in  trade.”  They  make  the  best  of  their  reverses, 


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287 


and  are  looked  upon  with  great  contempt.  They  are  little 
stooping  blear-eyed  old  men  of  cheerful  countenance,  and 
they  hobble  up  and  down  the  courtyard  wagging  their  chins 
and  talking  together  quite  gaily.  This  has  given  offence, 
and  has,  moreover,  raised  the  question  whether  they  are 
justified  in  passing  any  other  windows  than  their  own. 
Mr.  Battens,  however,  permitting  them  to  pass  his  win- 
dows, on  the  disdainful  ground  that  their  imbecility  almost 
amounts  to  irresponsibility,  they  are  allowed  to  take  their 
walk  in  peace.  They  live  next  door  to  one  another,  and 
take  it  by  turns  to  read  the  newspaper  aloud  (that  is  to 
say,  the  newest  newspaper  they  can  get),  and  they  play 
cribbage  at  night.  On  warm  and  sunny  days  they  have 
been  known  to  go  so  far  as  to  bring  out  two  chairs  and  sit 
by  the  iron  railings,  looking  forth,  but  this  low  conduct, 
being  much  remarked  upon  throughout  Titbull’s,  they  were 
deterred  by  an  outraged  public  opinion  from  repeating  it. 
There  is  a rumour — but  it  may  be  malicious — that  they 
hold  the  memory  of  Titbull  in  some  weak  sort  of  venera- 
tion, and  that  they  once  set  off  together  on  a pilgrimage  to 
the  parish  churchyard  to  find  his  tomb.  To  this,  perhaps, 
might  be  traced  a general  suspicion  that  they  are  spies  of 
the  gentlemen : ” to  which  they  were  supposed  to  have 
given  colour  in  my  own  presence  on  the  occasion  of  the 
weak  attempt  at  justification  of  the  pump  by  the  gentle- 
men’s clerk;  when  they  emerged  bare-headed  from  the 
doors  of  their  dwellings,  as  if  their  dwellings  and  them- 
selves constituted  an  old-fashioned  weather-glass  of  double 
action  with  two  figures  of  old  ladies  inside,  and  deferen- 
tially bowed  to  him  at  intervals  until  he  took  his  departure. 
They  are  understood  to  be  perfectly  friendless  and  rela- 
tionless. Unquestionably  the  two  poor  fellows  make  the 
very  best  of  their  lives  in  Titbull’ s Alms-Houses,  and  un- 
questionably they  are  (as  before  mentioned)  the  subjects 
of  unmitigated  contempt  there. 

On  Saturday  nights,  when  there  is  a greater  stir  than 
usual  outside,  and  when  itinerant  vendors  of  miscellaneous 
wares  even  take  their  stations  and  light  up  their  smoky 
lamps  before  the  iron  railings,  Titbull’ s becomes  flurried. 
Mrs.  Saggers  has  her  celebrated  palpitations  of  the  heart, 
for  the  most  part  on  Saturday  nights.  But  Titbull’s  is 
unfit  to  strive  with  the  uproar  of  tlio  streets  in  any  of  its 
phases.  It  is  religiously  believed  at  Titbull’s  that  people 


288 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


push  more  tliaii  they  used,  and  likewise  that  the  foremost 
object  of  the  population  of  England  and  Wales  is  to  get 
you  down  and  trample  on  you.  Even  of  railroads  they 
know,  at  Titbull’s,  little  more  than  the  shriek  (which  Mrs. 
Saggers  says  goes  through  her,  and  ought  to  be  taken  up 
by  Goveimment);  and  the  penny  postage  may  even  yet  be 
unknown  there,  for  I have  never  seen  a letter  delivered  to 
any  inhabitant.  But  there  is  a tall  straight  sallow  lady 
resident  in  Number  Seven,  Titbull’s,  who  never  speaks  to 
anybody,  who  is  surrounded  by  a superstitious  halo  of  lost 
Avealth,  who  does  her  household  work  in  housemaid’s 
gloves,  and  who  is  secretly  much  deferred  to,  though  openly 
cavilled  at;  and  it  has  obscurely  leaked  out  that  this  old 
lady  has  a son,  grandson,  nephew,  or  other  relative,  who  is 

a Contractor,”  and  who  would  think  it  nothing  of  a job 
to  knock  down  Titbull’s,  pack  it  off  into  Cornwall,  and 
knock  it  together  again.  An  immense  sensation  was  made 
by  a gipsy-party  calling  in  a spring- van,  to  take  this  old 
lady  up  to  go  for  a day’s  pleasure  into  Epping  Forest,  and 
notes  were  compared  as  to  which  of  the  company  was  the 
son,  grandson,  nephew,  or  other  relative,  the  Contractor. 
A thick-set  personage  with  a white  hat  and  a cigar  in  his 
mouth,  was  the  favourite : though  as  Titbull’s  had  no  other 
reason  to  believe  that  the  Contractor  was  there  at  all,  than 
that  this  man  was  supposed  to  eye  the  chimney  stacks  as 
if  he  would  like  to  knock  them  down  and  cart  them  off, 
the  general  mind  was  much  unsettled  in  arriving  at  a con- 
clusion. As  a way  out  of  this  difficulty,  it  concentrated 
itself  on  the  acknowledged  Beauty  of  party,  every  stitch  in 
whose  dress  was  verbally  unripped  by  the  old  ladies  then 
and  there,  and  whose  “goings  on”  with  another  and  a 
thinner  personage  in  a white  hat  might  have  suffused  the 
pump  (where  they  were  principally  discussed)  with  blushes, 
for  months  afterwards.  Herein  Titbull’s  was  to  Titbull’s 
true,  for  it  has  a constitutional  dislike  of  all  strangers.  As 
concmiiing  innovations  and  improvements,  it  is  always  of 
opinion  that  what  it  does  not  want  itself,  nobody  ought  to 
want.  But  I think  I have  met  with  this  opinion  outside 
Titbull’s. 

Of  the  humble  treasures  of  furniture  brought  into  Tit- 
bull’s by  the  inmates  when  they  establish  themseB'es  in 
that  place  of  contemplation  for  the  rest  of  their  days,  by 
far  the  greater  and  more  valuable  part  belongs  to  the  ladies. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


289 


I may  claim  the  honour  of  having  either  crossed  the  thresh- 
old, or  looked  in  at  the  door,  of  every  one  of  the  nine 
ladies,  and  I have  noticed  that  they  are  all  particular  in 
the  article  of  bedsteads,  and  maintain  favourite  and  long- 
established  bedsteads  and  bedding  as  a regular  part  of  their 
rest.  Generally  an  antiquated  chest  of  drawers  is  among 
their  cherished  possessions;  a tea-tray  always  is.  I know 
of  at  least  two  rooms  in  which  a little  tea-kettle  of  genuine 
burnished  copper,  vies  with  the  cat  in  winking  at  the  fire; 
and  one  old  lady  has  a tea-urn  set  forth  in  state  on  the  top 
of  her  chest  of  drawers,  which  urn  is  used  as  her  library, 
and  contains  four  duodecimo  volumes,  and  a black- bordered 
newspaper  giving  an  account  of  the  funeral  of  Her  Royal 
Highness  the  Princess  Charlotte.  Among  the  poor  old 
gentlemen  there  are  no  such  niceties.  Their  furniture  has 
the  air  of  being  contributed,  like  some  obsolete  Literary 
Miscellany,  ‘‘by  several  hands; their  few  chairs  never 
match;  old  patchwork  coverlets  linger  among  them;  and  they 
have  an  untidy  habit  of  keeping  their  wardrobes  in  hat- 
i boxes.  When  I recall  one  old  gentleman  who  is  rather  choice 
in  his  shoe-brushes  and  blacking-bottle,  I have  summed  up 
the  domestic  elegances  of  that  side  of  the  building. 

On  the  occurrence  of  a death  in  TitbulPs,  it  is  invariably 
agreed  among  the  survivors — and  it  is  the  only  subject  on 
which  they  do  agree — that  the  departed  did  something 
“to  bring  it  on.^^  Judging  by  TitbulPs,  I should  say  the 
human  race  need  never  die,  if  they  took  care.  But  they 
don’t  take  care,  and  they  do  die,  and  when  they  die  in  Tit- 
bulPs they  are  buried  at  the  cost  of  the  Foundation.  Some 
provision  has  been  made  for  the  purpose,  in  virtue  of  which 
(I  record  this  on  the  strength  of  having  seen  the  funeral  of 
Mrs.  Quinch)  a lively  neighbouring  undertaker  dresses  up 
four  of  the  old  men,  and  four  of  the  old  women,  hustles 
them  into  a procession  of  four  couples,  and  leads  off  with 
a large  black  bow  at  the  back  of  his  hat,  looking  over  his 
shoulder  at  them  airily  from  time  to  time  to  see  that  no 
member  of  the  party  has  got  lost,  or  has  tumbled  down; 
as  if  they  were  a company  of  dim  old  dolls. 

Resignation  of  a dwelling  is  of  very  rare  occurrence  in 
TitbulPs.  A story  does  obtain  there,  how  an  old  lady’s 
son  once  drew  a prize  of  Thirty  Thousand  Pounds  in  the' 
Lottery,  and  presently  drove  to  the  gate  in  his  own  car- 
riage, with  French  Horns  playing  up  behind,  and  whisked 
19 


200 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


his  mother  away,  and  left  ten  guineas  for  a Feast.  But  I 
have  been  unable  to  substantiate  it  by  any  evidence,  and 
regard  it  as  an  Alms-House  Fairy  Tale.  It  is  curious  that 
the  only  proved  case  of  resignation  happened  within  my 
knowledge. 

It  happened  on  this  wise.  There  is  a sharp  competition 
among  the  ladies  respecting  the  gentility  of  their  visitors, 
and  I have  so  often  observed  visitors  to  be  dressed  as  for  a 
holiday  occasion,  that  I suppose  the  ladies  to  have  be- 
sought them  to  make  all  possible  display  when  they  come. 
In  these  circumstances  much  excitement  was  one  day  occa- 
sioned by  Mrs.  Mitts  receiving  a visit  from  a Greenwich 
Pensioner.  He  was  a Pensioner  of  a bluff  and  warlike 
appearance,  with  an  empty  coat-sleeve,  and  he  was  got  up 
with  unusual  care;  his  coat-buttons  were  extremely  bright, 
he  wore  his  empty  coat-sleeve  in  a graceful  festoon,  and  he 
had  a walking-stick  in  his  hand  that  must  have  cost  money. 
When,  with  the  head  of  his  walking-stick,  he  knocked 
at  Mrs.  Mitts’s  door — there  are  no  knockers  in  Titbull’s — 
Mrs.  Mitts  was  overheard  by  a next-door  neighbour  to  utter 
a cry  of  surprise  expressing  much  agitation;  and  the  same 
neighbour  did  afterwards  solemnly  affirm  that  when  he 
was  admitted  into  Mrs.  Mitts’s  room,  she  heard  a smack. 
Heard  a smack  which  was  not  a blow. 

There  was  an  air  about  this  Greenwich  Pensioner  when 
he  took  his  departure,  which  imbued  all  Titbull’s  with  the 
conviction  that  he  was  coming  again.  He  was  eagerly 
looked  for,  and  Mrs.  Mitts  was  closely  watched.  In  the 
meantime,  if  anything  could  have  placed  the  unfortunate 
six  old  gentlemen  at  a greater  disadvantage  than  that  at 
which  they  chronically  stood,  it  would  have  been  the  ap- 
parition of  this  Greenwich  Pensioner.  They  were  well 
shrunken  already,  but  they  shrunk  to  nothing  in  compari- 
son with  the  Pensioner.  Even  the  poor  old  gentlemen 
themselves  seemed  conscious  of  their  inferiority,  and  to 
know  submissively  that  they  could  never  hope  to  hold  their 
own  against  the  Pensioner  with  his  warlike  and  maritime 
experience  in  the  past,  and  his  tobacco  money  in  the  pres- 
ent : his  chequered  career  of  blue  water,  black  gunpowder, 
and  red  bloodshed  for  England  home  and  beauty. 

Before  three  weeks  were  out  the  Pensioner  reappeared. 
Again  he  knocked  at  Mrs.  Mitts ’s  door  with  the  handle 
of  his  stick,  and  again  was  he  admitted.  But  not  again 


\ 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


291 


did  he  depart  alone;  for  Mrs.  Mitts,  in  a bonnet  identi- 
fied as  having  been  re-embellished,  went  out  walking  with 
him,  and  stayed  out  till  the  ten  o’clock  beer,  Greenwich 
time. 

There  was  now  a truce,  even  as  to  the  troubled  waters 
of  Mrs.  Saggers’s  pail;  nothing  was  spoken  of  among  the 
ladies  but  the  conduct  of  Mrs.  Mitts  and  its  blighting  in- 
fluence on  the  reputation  of  Titbull’s.  It  was  agreed  that 
Mr.  Battens  ought  to  take  it  up,”  and  Mr.  Battens  was 
communicated  with  on  the  subject.  That  unsatisfactory 
individual  replied  ^‘that  he  didn’t  see  his  way  yet,”  and  it 
was  unanimously  voted  by  the  ladies  that  aggravation  was 
in  his  nature. 

How  it  came  to  pass,  with  some  appearance  of  inconsist- 
ency, that  Mrs.  Mitts  was  cut  by  all  the  ladies  and  the 
Pensioner  admired  by  all  the  ladies,  matters  not.  Before 
another  week  was  out,  Titbull’s  was  startled  by  another 
phenomenon.  At  ten  o’clock  in  the  forenoon  appeared  a 
jcab,  containing  not  only  the  Greenwich  Pensioner  with  one 
arm,  but,  to  boot,  a Chelsea  Pensioner  with  one  leg.  Both 
dismounting  to  assist  Mrs.  Mitts  into  the  cab,  the  Green- 
wich Pensioner  bore  her  company  inside,  and  the  Chelsea 
Pensioner  mounted  the  box  by  the  driver : his  wooden  leg 
sticking  out  after  the  manner  of  a bowsprit,  as  if  in  jocular 
homage  to  his  friend’s  seagoing  career.  Thus  the  equi- 
page drove  away.  No  Mrs.  Mitts  returned  that  night. 

What  Mr.  Battens  might  have  done  in  the  matter  of  tak- 
ing it  up,  goaded  by  the  infuriated  state  of  public  feeling 
next  morning,  was  anticipated  by  another  phenomenon. 
A Truck,  propelled  by  the  Greenwich  Pensioner  and  the 
Chelsea  Pensioner,  each  placidly  smoking  a pipe,  and  push- 
■ing  his  warrior  breast  against  the  handle. 

The  display  on  the  part  of  the  Greenwich  Pensioner  of 
bis  ^^marriage-lines,”  and  his  announcement  that  himself 
ind  friend  had  looked  in  for  the  furniture  of  Mrs.  G.  Pen- 
I doner,  late  Mitts,  by  no  means  reconciled  the  ladies  to 
she  conduct  of  their  sister;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  said  that 
bhey  appeared  more  than  ever  exasperated.  Nevertheless, 
ny  stray  visits  to  Titbull’s  since  the  date  of  this  occur- 
rence, have  confirmed  me  in  an  impression  that  it  was  a . 
wholesome  fillip.  The  nine  ladies  are  smarter,  both  in 
mind  and  dress,  than  they  used  to  be,  though  it  must  be 
idmitted  that  they  despise  the  six  gentlemen  to  the  last 


292  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

extent.  They  have  a much  greater  interest  in  the  exter- 
nal thoroughfare  too,  than  they  had  when  I first  knew  Tit- 
bulUs.  And  whenever  I chance  to  be  leaning  my  back 
against  the  pump  or  the  iron  railings,  and  to  be  talking  to 
one  of  the  junior  ladies,  and  to  see  that  a flush  has  passed 
over  her  face,  I immediately  know  without  looking  round 
that  a Greenwich  Tensioner  has  gone  past. 


XXX. 

THE  RUFFIAN. 

I ENTERTAIN  SO  strong  an  objection  to  the  euphonious 
softening  of  Ruffian  into  Rough,  which  has  lately  become 
popular,  that  I restore  the  right  word  to  the  heading  of 
this  paper;  the  rather,  as  my  object  is  to  dwell  upon  the 
fact  that  the  Ruffian  is  tolerated  among  us  to  an  extent  that 
goes  beyond  all  un ruffianly  endurance.  I take  the  liberty 
to  believe  that  if  the  Ruffian  besets  my  life,  a professional 
Ruffian  at  large  in  the  open  streets  of  a great  city,  notori- 
ously having  no  other  calling  than  that  of  Ruffian,  and  of 
disquieting  and  despoiling  me  as  I go  peacefully  about  my 
lawful  business,  interfering  with  no  one,  then  the  Govern- 
ment under  which  I have  the  great  constitutional  privilege, 
supreme  honour  and  happiness,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  to 
exist,  breaks  down  in  the  discharge  of  any  Government’s 
most  simple  elementary  duty. 

What  did  I read  in  the  London  daily  papers,  in  the  early 
days  of  this  last  September?  That  the  Police  had  ^^At 

LENGTH  SUCCEEDED  IN  CAPTURING  TwO  OF  THE  NOTORIOUS 
GANG  THAT  HAVE  SO  LONG  INFESTED  THE  WATERLOO  RoAD.” 

Is  it  possible?  What  a wonderful  Police ! Here  is  a straight, 
broad,  public  thoroughfare  of  immense  resort;  half  a mile 
long;  gas-lighted  by  night;  with  a great  gas-lighted  rail- 
way station  in  it,  extra  the  street  lamps;  full  of  shops; 
traversed  by  two  popular  cross  thoroughfares  of  considera- 
ble traffic;  itself  the  main  road  to  the  South  of  London; 
and  the  admirable  Police  have,  after  long  infestment  of 
this  dark  and  lonely  spot  by  a gang  of  Ruffians,  actually 
got  hold  of  two  of  them.  • Why,  can  it  be  doubted  that 
any  man  of  fair  London  knowledge  and  common  resolution. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


293 


armed  with  the  powers  of  the  Law,  could  have  captured 
the  whole  confederacy  in  a week? 

It  is  to  the  saving  up  of  the  Ruffian  class  by  the  Magis- 
tracy and  Police — to  the  conventional  preserving  of  them, 
as  if  they  were  Partridges — that  their  number  and  audacity 
must  be  in  great  part  referred.  Why  is  a notorious  Thief 
and  Ruffian  ever  left  at  large?  He  never  turns  his  liberty 
to  any  account  but  violence  and  plunder,  he  never  did  a 
day’s  work  out  of  gaol,  he  never  will  do  a day’s  work  out 
of  gaol.  As  a proved  notorious  Thief  he  is  always  con- 
signable  to  prison  for  three  months.  When  he  comes  out, 
he  is  surely  as  notorious  a Thief  as  he  was  when  he  went 
in.  Then  send  him  back  again.  Just  Heaven ! ” cries 
the  Society  for  the  protection  of  remonstrant  Ruffians. 
“ This  is  equivalent  to  a sentence  of  perpetual  imprison- 
i ment!  ” Precisely  for  that  reason  it  has  my  advocacy.  I 
demand  to  have  the  Ruffian  kept  out  of  my  way,  and  out 
of  the  way  of  all  decent  people.  I demand  to  have  the 
I Ruffian  employed,  perforce,  in  hewing  wood  and  drawing 
water  somewhere  for  the  general  service,  instead  of  hewing 
at  her  Majesty’s  subjects  and  drawing  their  watches  out  of 
their  pockets.  If  this  be  termed  an  unreasonable  demand, 
then  the  tax-gatherer’s  demand  on  me  must  be  far  more 
unreasonable,  and  cannot  be  otherwise  than  extortionate 
and  unjust. 

It  will  be  seen  that  I treat  of  the  Thief  and  Ruffian  as 
one.  I do  so,  because  I know  the  two  characters  to  be 
one,  in  the  vast  majority  of  cases,  just  as  well  as  the  Po- 
lice know  it.  (As  to  the  Magistracy,  with  a few  excep- 
tions, they  know  nothing  about  it  but  what  the  Police 
choose  to  tell  them.)  There  are  disorderly  classes  of  men 
who  are  not  thieves;  as  railway-navigators,  brickmakers, 
wood-sawyers,  costermongers.  These  classes  are  often  dis- 
orderly and  troublesome;  but  it  is  mostly  among  them- 
selves, and  at  any  rate  they  have  their  industrious  avoca- 
‘tions,  they  work  early  and  late,  and  work  hard.  The 
generic  Ruffian — honourable  member  for  what  is  tenderly 
called  the  Rough  Element — is  either  a Thief,  or  the  com- 
panion of  Thieves.  When  he  infamously  molests  women 
coming  out  of  chapel  on  Sunday  evenings  (for  which  I* 
would  have  his  back  scarified  often  and  deep)  it  is  not 
'only  for  the  gratification  of  his  pleasant  instincts,  but  that 
there  may  be  a confusion  raised  by  which  either  he  or  his 


294 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


friends  may  profit,  in  the  commission  of  highway  robberies 
or  in  picking  pockets.  When  he  gets  a police-constable 
down  and  kicks  him  helpless  for  life,  it  is  because  that 
constable  once  did  his  duty  in  bringing  him  to  justice. 
When  he  rushes  into  the  bar  of  a public-house  and  scoops 
an  eye  out  of  one  of  the  company  there,  or  bites  his 
ear  off,  it  is  because  the  man  he  maims  gave  evidence 
against  him.  When  he  and  a line  of  comrades  extend- 
ing across  the  footway — say  of  that  solitary  mountain- 
spur  of  the  Abruzzi,  the  W^aterloo  J4oad — advance  towards 
me  “ sky-larking  ” among  themselves,  my  purse  or  shirt- 
pin  is  in  predestined  peril  from  his  playfulness.  Always 
a Euffian,  always  a Thief.  Always  a Thief,  always  a 
Ruffian. 

Now,  when  I,  who  am  not  paid  to  know  these  things, 
know  them  daily  on  the  evidence  of  my  senses  and  experi- 
ence; when  I know  that  the  Ruffian  never  jostles  a lady 
in  the  streets,  or  knocks  a hat  off,  but  in  order  that  the 
Thief  may  profit,  is  it  surprising  that  I should  require  from 
those  who  are  paid  to  know  these  things,  prevention  of 
them? 

Look  at  this  group  at  a street  corner.  Number  one  is  a 
shirking  fellow  of  five-and-twenty,  in  an  ill-favoured  and 
ill-savoured  suit,  his  trousers  of  corduroy,  his  coat  of  some 
indiscernible  groundwork  for  the  deposition  of  grease,  his 
neckerchief  like  an  eel,  his  complexion  like  dirty  dough, 
his  mangy  fur  cap  pulled  low  upon  his  beetle  brows  to  hide 
the  prison  cut  of  his  hair.  His  hands  are  in  his  pockets. 
He  puts  them  there  when  they  are  idle,  as  naturally  as  in 
other  people’s  pockets  when  they  are  busy,  for  he  knows 
that  they  are  not  roughened  by  work,  and  that  they  tell  a 
tale.  Hence,  whenever  he  takes  one  out  to  draw  a sleeve 
across  his  nose — which  is  often,  for  he  has  weak  eyes  and 
a constitutional  cold  in  his  head— he  restores  it  to  its  pocket 
immediately  afterwards.  Number  two  is  a burly  brute  of 
five-and-thirty,  in  a tall  stiff  hat;  is  a composite  as  to  his 
clothes  of  betting-man  and  fighting-man ; is  whiskered; 
has  a staring  pin  in  his  breast,  along  with  his  right  hand; 
has  insolent  and  cruel  eyes;  large  shoulders;  strong  legs, 
booted  and  tipped  for  kicking.  Number  three  is  forty 
years  of  age;  is  short,  thick-set,  strong,  and  bow-legged; 
wears  knee  cords  and  white  stockings,  a very  long-sleeved 
waistcoat,  a very  large  neckerchief  doubled  or  trebled  romid 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  295 

his  throat,  and  a crumpled  white  hat  crowns  his  ghastly 
parchment  face.  This  fellow  looks  like  an  executed  post- 
boy of  other  days,  cut  down  from  the  gallows  too  soon, 
and  restored  and  preserved  by  express  diabolical  agency. 
Numbers  five,  six,  and  seven,  are  hulking,  idle,  slouching 
young  men,  patched  and  shabby,  too  short  in  the  sleeves 
and  too  tight  in  the  legs,  slimiljr  clothed,  foul-spoken,  re- 
pulsive wretches  inside  and  out.  In  all  the  party  there 
.obtains  a certain  twitching  character  of  mouth  and  furtive- 
iiess  of  eye,  that  hint  how  the  coward  is  lurking  under  the 
bully.  The  hint  is  quite  correct,  for  they  are  a slinking 
sneaking  set,  far  more  prone  to  lie  down  on  their  backs 
find  kick  out,  when  in  difficulty,  than  to  make  a stand  for 
t.  (This  may  account  for  the  street  mud  on  the  backs  of 
Numbers  five,  six,  and  seven,  being  much  fresher  than  the 
dale  splashes  on  their  legs.) 

These  engaging  gentry  a Police-constable  stands  con  tern - 
olating.  His  Station,  with  a Reserve  of  assistance,  is  very 
iiear  at  hand.  They  cannot  pretend  to  any  trade,  not  even 
1.0  be  porters  or  messengers.  It  would  be  idle  if  they  did, 
■or  he  knows  them,  and  they  know  that  he  knows  them,  to 
)e  nothing  but  professed  Thieves  and  Ruffians.  He  knows 
vhere  they  resort,  knows  by  what  slang  names  they  call 
•ne  another,  knows  how  often  they  have  been  in  prison, 
.nd  how  long,  and  for  what.  All  this  is  known  at  his 
itation,  too,  and  is  (or  ought  to  be)  known  at  Scotland 
fard,  too.  But  does  lie  know,  or  does  his  Station  know, 
r does  Scotland  Yard  know,  or  does  anybody  know,  why 
hese  fellows  should  be  here  at  liberty,  when,  as  reputed 
Ihieves  to  whom  a whole  Division  of  Police  could  swear, 
hey  might  all  be  under  lock  and  key  at  hard  labour? 
lot  he;  truly  he  would  be  a wise  man  if  he  did ! He  only 
mows  that  these  are  members  of  the  “notorious  gang,” 
/hich,  according  to  the  newspaper  Police-office  reports  of 
his  last  past  September,  “ have  so  long  infested  ” the  aw- 
al  solitudes  of  the  Waterloo  Road,  and  out  of  which 
Imost  impregnable  fastnesses  the  Police  have  at  length 
'ragged  Two,  to  the  unspeakable  admiration  of  all  good 
ivilians. 

The  consequences  of  this  contemplative  habit  on  the  part  . 
f the  Executive— a habit  to  be  looked  for  iu  a hermit, 
,ut  not  in  a Police  System— are  familiar  to  us  all.  The 
Aiflfian  becomes  one  of  the  established  orders  of  the  body 


296 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


politic.  Under  the  playful  name  of  Rough  (as  if  he  were 
merely  a practical  joker)  his  movements  and  successes  are 
recorded  on  public  occasions.  Whether  he  mustered  in 
large  numbers,  or  small;  whether  he  was  in  good  spirits, 
or  depressed;  whether  he  turned  his  generous  exertions  to 
very  prosperous  account,  or  Fortune  was  against  him; 
whether  he  was  in  a sanguinary  mood,  or  robbed  with  amia- 
ble horse-play  and  a gracious  consideration  for  life  and 
limb;  all  this  is  chronicled  as  if  he  were  an  Institution. 
Is  there  any  city  in  Europe,  out  of  England,  in  which  these 
terms  are  held  with  the  pests  of  Society?  Or  in  which,  at 
this  day,  such  violent  robberies  from  the  person  are  con- 
stantly committed  as  in  London? 

The  Preparatory  Schools  of  Ruffianism  are  similarly  borne 
with.  The  young  Ruffians  of  London — not  Thieves  yet,  but 
training  for  scholarships  and  fellowships  in  the  Criminal 
Court  Universities — molest  quiet  people  and  their  property, 
to  an  extent  that  is  hardly  credible.  The  throwing  of  stones 
in  the  streets  has  become  a dangerous  and  destructive  offence, 
which  surely  could  have  got  to  no  greater  height  though 
we  had  had  no  Police  but  our  own  riding- whips  and  walk- 
ing-sticks— the  Police  to  which  I myself  appeal  on  these 
occasions.  The  throwing  of  stones  at  the  windows  of  rail- 
way carriages  in  motion — an  act  of  wanton  wickedness 
with  the  very  Arch-Fiend’s  hand  in  it — had  become  a cry- 
ing evil,  when  the  railway  companies  forced  it  on  Police 
notice.  Constabular  contemplation  had  until  then  been  the 
order  of  the  day. 

Within  these  twelve  months,  there  arose  among  the 
young  gentlemen  of  London  aspiring  to  Ruffianism,  and 
cultivating  that  much-encouraged  social  art,  a facetious 
cry  of  I’ll  have  this ! ” accompanied  with  a clutch  at  some 
article  of  a passing  lady’s  dress.  I have  known  a lady’s 
veil  to  be  thus  humorously  torn  from  her  face  and  carried 
off  in  the  open  streets  at  noon,  and  I have  had  the  honour 
of  myself  giving  chase,  on  Westminster  Bridge,  to  another 
young  Ruffian,  who,  in  full  daylight  early  on  a summer 
evening,  had  nearly  thrown  a modest  young  woman  into  a 
swoon  of  indignation  and  confusion,  by  liis  shameful  man- 
ner of  attacking  her  with  this  cry  as  she  harmlessly  passed 
along  before  me.  Mr.  Carlyle,  some  time  since,  awak- 
ened a little  pleasantry  by  writing  of  his  own  experience  of 
the  Ruffian  of  the  streets.  I have  seen  the  Ruffian  act  in 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


297 


exact  accordance  with  Mr.  Carlyle’s  description,  innumera- 
ble times,  and  I never  saw  him  checked. 

The  glaring  use  of  the  very  worst  language  possible,  in 
our  public  thoroughfares — especially  in  those  set  apart  for 
recreation — is  another  disgrace  to  us,  and  another  result  of 
constabular  contemplation,  the  like  of  which  I have  never 
heard  in  any  other  country  to  which  my  uncommercial 
travels  have  extended.  Years  ago,  when  I had  a near  in- 
terest in  certain  children  who  were  sent  with  their  nurses, 
for  air  and  exercise,  into  the  Regent’s  Park,  I found  this 
evil  to  be  so  abhorrent  and  horrible  there,  that  I called 
public  attention  to  it,  and  also  to  its  contemplative  recep- 
tion by  the  Police.  Looking  afterwards  into  the  newest 
Police  Act,  and  finding  that  the  offence  was  punishable 
under  it,  I resolved,  when  striking  occasion  should  arise, 
to  try  my  hand  as  prosecutor.  The  occasion  arose  soon 
enough,  and  I ran  the  following  gauntlet. 

The  utterer  of  the  base  coin  in  question  was  a girl  of 
seventeen  or  eighteen,  who,  with  a suitable  attendance  of 
blackguards,  youths,  and  boys,  was  flaunting  along  the 
streets,  returning  from  an  Irish  funeral,  in  a Progress 
interpersed  with  singing ' and  dancing.  She  had  turned 
round  to  me  and  expressed  herself  in  the  most  audible  man- 
ner, to  the  great  delight  of  that  select  circle.  I attended 
the  party,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  for  a mile 
further,  and  then  encountered  a Police-constable.  The 
party  had  made  themselves  merry  at  my  expense  until 
now,  but  seeing  me  speak  to  the  constable,  its  male  mem- 
bers instantly  took  to  their  heels,  leaving  the  girl  alone. 
I asked  the  constable  did  he  know  my  name?  Yes,  he 
did.  ^^Take  that  girl  into  custody,  on  my  charge,  for 
using  bad  language  in  the  streets.”  He  had  never  heard 
of  such  a charge.  I had.  Would  he  take  my  word  that 
he  should  get  into  no  trouble?  Yes,  sir,  he  would  do 
that.  So  he  took  the  girl,  and  I went  home  for  my  Police 
Act. 

With  this  potent  instrument  in  my  pocket,  I literally 
as  well  as  figuratively  ^‘returned  to  the  charge,”  and  pre- 
sented myself  at  the  Police  Station  of  the  district.  There, 

I found  on  duty  a very  intelligent  Inspector  (they  are  all 
intelligent  men),  who,  likewise,  had  never  heard  of  such  a 
charge.  I showed  him  my  clause,  and  we  went  over  it 
together  twice  or  thrice.  It  was  plain,  and  I engaged  to 


298 


THE  UNCOMi\IERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


wait  upon  the  suburban  Magistrate  to-morrow  morning  at 
ten  o’clock. 

In  the  morning  I put  my  Police  Act  in  my  pocket  again, 
and  waited  on  the  suburban  Magistrate.  I was  not  quite 
so  courteously  received  by  him  as  I should  have  been  by 
The  Lord  Chancellor  or  The  Lord  Chief  Justice,  but  that 
was  a question  of  good  breeding  on  the  suburban  Magis- 
trate’s part,  and  I had  my  clause  ready  with  its  leaf  turned 
down.  Which  was  enough  for  me. 

Conference  took  place  between  the  Magistrate  and  clerk 
respecting  the  charge.  During  conference  I was  evidently 
regarded  as  a much  more  objectionable  person  than  the 
prisoner; — one  giving  trouble  by  coming  there  voluntarily, 
which  the  prisoner  could  not  be  accused  of  doing.  The 
prisoner  had  been  got  up,  since  I last  had  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  her,  with  a great  effect  of  white  apron  and  straw 
bonnet.  She  reminded  me  of  an  elder  sister  of  Eed  Kiding 
Hood,  and  I seemed  to  remind  the  sympathising  Chimney 
Sweep  by  whom  she  was  attended,  of  the  Wolf. 

The  Magistrate  was  doubtful,  Mr.  Uncommercial  Trav- 
eller, whether  this  charge  could  be  entertained.  It  was 
not  known.  Mr.  Uncommercial  Traveller  replied  that  he 
wished  it  were  better  known,  and  that,  if  he  could  afford 
the  leisure,  he  would  use  his  endeavours  to  make  it  so. 
There  was  no  question  about  it,  however,  he  contended. 
Here  was  the  clause. 

The  clause  was  handed  in,  and  more  conference  resulted. 
After  which  I was  asked  the  extraordinary  question : Mr. 

Uncommercial,  do  you  really  wish  this  girl  to  be  sent  to 
prison?”  To  which  I grimly  answered,  staring;  ‘‘If  I 
didn’t,  why  should  I take  the  trouble  to  come  here?” 
Finally,  I was  sworn,  and  gave  my  agreeable  evidence  in 
detail,  and  White  Kiding  Hood  was  fined  ten  shillings, 
under  the  clause,  or  sent  to  prison  for  so  many  days. 
“ Why,  Lord  bless  you,  sir,”  said  the  Police-officer,  who 
showed  me  out,  with  a great  enjoyment  of  the  jest  of  her 
having  been  got  up  so  effectively,  and  caused  so  much  hesi- 
tation : “ If  she  goes  to  prison,  that  will  be  nothing  new 

to  her.  She  comes  from  Charles  Street,  Drury  Lane ! ” 

The  Police,  all  things  considered,  are  an  excellent  force, 
and  I have  borne  my  small  testimony  to  their  merits.  Con- 
stabular  contemplation  is  the  result  of  a bad  system;  a sys- 
tem which  is  administered,  not  invented,  by  the  man  in  con- 


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299 


stable’s  uniform,  employed  at  twenty  shillings  a week.  He 
has  his  orders,  and  would  be  marked  for  discouragement  if 
he  overstepped  them.  That  the  system  is  bad,  there  needs 
no  lengthened  argument  to  prove,  because  the  fact  is  self- 
evident.  If  it  were  anything  else,  the  results  that  have  at- 
tended it  could  not  possibly  have  come  to  pass.  Who  will 
say  that  under  a good  system,  our  streets  could  have  got 
into  their  present  state? 

The  objection  to  the  whole  Police  system,  as  concerning 
the  Ruffian,  may  be  stated,  and  its  failure  exemplified,  as 
follows.  It  is  well  known  that  on  all  great  occasions, 
when  they  come  together  in  numbers,  the  mass  of  the  Eng- 
lish people  are  their  own  trustworthy  Police.  It  is  well 
known  that  wheresoever  there  is  collected  together  any  fair 
general  representation  of  the  people,  a respect  for  law  and 
order,  and  a determination  to  discountenance  lawlessness 
and  disorder,  may  be  relied  upon.  As  to  one  another,  the 
people  are  a very  good  Police,  and  yet  are  quite  willing  in 
their  good-nature  that  the  stipendiary  Police  should  have 
'the  credit  of  the  people’s  moderation.  But  we  are  all  of 
us  powerless  against  the  Ruffian,  because  we  submit  to  the 
law,  and  it  is  his  only  trade,  by  superior  force  and  by  vio- 
lence, to  defy  it.  Moreover,  we  are  constantly  admonished 
from  high  places  (like  so  many  Sunday-,  chool  children  out 
for  a holiday  of  buns  and  milk-and-water)  that  we  are  not 
to  take  the  law  into  our  own  hands,  but  are  to  hand  our 
defence  over  to  it.  It  is  clear  that  the  common  enemy  to 
be  punished  and  exterminated  first  of  all  is  the  Ruffian. 
It  is  clear  that  he  is,  of  all  others,  the  offender  for  whose 
'repressal  we  maintain  a costly  system  of  Police.  Him, 
therefore,  we  expressly  present  to  the  Police  to  deal  with, 
'conscious  that,  on  the  whole,  we  can,  and  do,  deal  reason- 
ably well  with  one  another.  Him  the  Police  deal  with  so 
inefficiently  and  absurdly  that  he  flourishes,  and  multiplies, 
and,  with  all  his  evil  deeds  upon  his  head  as  notoriously 
as  his  hat  is,  pervades  the  streets  with  no  more  let  or  hin- 
irance  than  ourselves. 


300 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


XXXI. 

ABOARD  SHIP. 

My  journeys  as  Uncommercial  Traveller  for  the  firm  of 
Human-Interest  Brothers  have  not  slackened  since  I last 
reported  of  them,  but  have  kept  me  continually  on  the 
move.  I remain  in  the  same  idle  employment.  I never 
solicit  an  order,  I never  get  any  commission,  I am  the  roll- 
ing stone  that  gathers  no  moss, — unless  any  should  by 
chance  be  found  among  these  samples. 

Some  half  a year  ago,  I found  myself  in  my  idlest, 
dreamiest,  and  least  accountable  condition  altogether,  on 
board  ship,  in  the  harbour  of  the  city  of  New  York,  in  the 
United  States  of  America.  Of  all  the  good  ships  afloat, 
mine  was  the  good  steamship  ^^Eussia,^^  Capt.  Cook, 
Cunard  Line,  bound  for  Liverpool.  What  more  could  I 
wish  for? 

I had  nothing  to  wish  for  but  a prosperous  passage.  My 
salad-days,  when  I was  green  of  visage  and  sea-sick,  being 
gone  with  better  things  (and  no  worse),  no  coming  event 
cast  its  shadow  before. 

I might  but  a few  moments  previously  have  imitated 
Sterne,  and  said,  “ ^And  yet,  methinks,  Eugenius,’ -—laying 
my  forefinger  wistfully  on  his  coat-sleeve,  thus, — ‘and  yet, 
methinks,  Eugenius,  ^tis  but  sorry  work  to  part  with  thee, 
for  what  fresh  fields,  . . . my  dear  Eugenius,  . . . can  be 
fresher  than  thou  art,  and  in  what  pastures  new  shall  I 
find  Eliza,  or  call  her,  Eugenius,  if  thou  wilt,  Annie?  ’ — 
I say  I might  have  done  this;  but  Eugenius  was  gone,  and 
I hadn’t  done  it. 

I was  resting  on  a skylight  on  the  hurricane-deck,  watch- 
ing the  working  of  the  ship  very  slowly  about,  that  she 
might  head  for  England.  It  was  high-noon  on  a most  brill- 
iant day  in  April,  and  the  beautiful  bay  was  glorious  and 
glowing.  Full  many  a time,  on  shore  there,  had  I seen 
the  snow  come  down,  down,  down  (itself  like  down),  until 
it  lay  deep  in  all  the  ways  of  men,  and  particularly,  as  it 
seemed,  in  my  way,  for  I had  not  gone  dry-shod  many 


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301 


hours  for  months.  Within  two  or  three  days  last  past  had 
I watched  the  feathery  fall  setting  in  with  the  ardour  of  a 
new  idea,  instead  of  dragging  at  the  skirts  of  a worn-out 
winter,  and  permitting  glimpses  of  a fresh  young  spring. 
But  a bright  sun  and  a clear  sky  had  melted  the  snow  in 
the  great  crucible  of  nature;  and  it  had  been  poured  out 
again  that  morning  over  sea  and  land,  transformed  into 
, myriads  of  gold  and  silver  sparkles. 

The  ship  was  fragrant  with  flowers.  Something  of  the 
old  Mexican  passion  for  flowers  may  have  gradually  passed 
into  North  America,  where  flowers  are  luxuriously  grown, 
and  tastefully  combined  in  the  richest  profusion;  but,  be 
that  as  it  may,  such  gorgeous  farewells  in  flowers  had  come 
on  board,  that  the  small  officer’s  cabin  on  deck,  which  I 
tenanted,  bloomed  over  into  the  adjacent  scuppers,  and 
banks  of  other  flowers  that  it  couldn’t  hold  made  a garden 
of  the  unoccupied  tables  in  the  passengers’  saloon.  These 
delicious  scents  of  the  shore,  mingling  with  the  fresh  airs 
j of  the  sea,  made  the  atmosphere  a dreamy,  an  enchanting 
one.  And  so,  with  the  watch  aloft  setting  all  the  sails, 
and  with  the  screw  below  revolving  at  a mighty  rate,  and 
occasionally  giving  the  ship  an  angry  shake  for  resisting,  I 
fell  into  my  idlest  ways,  and  lost  myself. 

As,  for  instance,  whether  it  was  I lying  there,  or  some 
other  entity  even  more  mysterious,  was  a matter  I was  far 
too  lazy  to  look  into.  What  did  it  signify  to  me  if  it 
were  I?  or  to  the  more  mysterious  entity,  if  it  were  he? 

' Equally  as  to  the  remembrances  that  drowsily  floated  by 
me,  or  by  him,  why  ask  when  or  where  the  things  hap- 
pened? Was  it  not  enough  that  they  befell  at  some  time, 
somewhere? 

There  was  that  assisting  at  the  church  service  on  board 
another  steamship,  one  Sunday,  in  a stiff  breeze.  Perhaps 
on  the  passage  out.  No  matter.  Pleasant  to  hear  the 
ship’s  bells  go  as  like  church-bells  as  they  could;  pleasant 
' to  see  the  watch  off  duty  mustered  and  come  in  : best  hats, 
best  Guernseys,  washed  hands  and  faces,  smoothed  heads. 
But  then  arose  a set  of  circumstances  so  rampantly  comi- 
cal, that  no  check  which  the  gravest  intentions  could  put 
upon  them  would  hold  them  in  hand.  Thus  the  scene.. 
Some  seventy  passengers  assembled  at  the  saloon  tables. 

’ Prayer-books  on  tables.  Ship  rolling  heavily.  Pause.  No 
minister.  Rumour  has  related  that  a modest  young  clergy- 


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THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


man  on  board  has  responded  to  the  captain’s  request  that 
he  will  officiate.  Pause  again,  and  very  heavy  rolling. 

Closed  double  doors  suddenly  burst  open,  and  two  strong 
stewards  skate  in,  supporting  minister  between  them. 
General  appearance  as  of  somebody  picked  up  drunk  and 
incapable,  and  under  conveyance  to  station-house.  Stop- 
page, pause,  and  particularly  heavy  rolling.  Stewards 
watch  their  opportunity,  and  balance  themselves,  but  can- 
not balance  minister;  who,  struggling  with  a drooping  head 
and  a backward  tendency,  seems  determined  to  return  be- 
low, while  they  are  as  determined  that  he  shall  be  got  to 
the  reading-desk  in  mid-saloon.  Desk  portable,  sliding 
away  down  a long  table,  and  aiming  itself  at  the  breasts  of 
various  members  of  the  congregation.  Here  the  double 
doors,  which  have  been  carefully  closed  by  other  stewards, 
fly  open  again,  and  worldly  passenger  tumbles  in,  seemingly 
with  pale-ale  designs:  who,  seeking  friend,  says  ‘‘Joe!” 
Perceiving  incongruity,  says,  “ Hullo ! Beg  yer  pardon ! ” 
and  tumbles  out  again.  All  this  time  the  congregation 
have  been  breaking  up  into  sects, — as  the  manner  of  con- 
gregations often  is,— each  sect  sliding  away  by  itself,  and 
all  pounding  the  weakest  sect  which  slid  first  into  the 
corner.  Utmost  point  of  dissent  soon  attained  in  every 
corner,  and  violent  rolling.  Stewards  at  length  make  a 
dash;  conduct  minister  to  the  mast  in  the  centre  of  the 
saloon,  which  he  embraces  with  both  arms;  skate  out;  and 
leave  him  in  that  condition  to  arrange  affairs  with  flock. 

There  was  another  Sunday,  when  an  officer  of  the  ship 
read  the  service.  It  was  quiet  and  impressive,  until  we 
fell  upon  the  dangerous  and  perfectly  unnecessary  experi- 
ment of  striking  up  a hymn.  After  it  was  given  out,  we 
all  rose,  but  everybody  left  it  to  somebody  else  to  begin. 
Silence  resulting,  the  officer  (no  singer  himself)  rather  re-  i 
proachfully  gave  us  the  first  line  again,  upon  which  a rosy 
pippin  of  an  old  gentleman,  remarkable  throughout  the 
passage  for  his  cheerful  politeness,  gave  a little  stamp  with 
his  boot  (as  if  he  were  leading  off  a country  dance),  and 
blithely  warbled  us  into  a show  of  joining.  At  the  end  of 
the  first  verse  we  became,  through  these  tactics,  so  much 
refreshed  and  encouraged,  that  none  of  us,  howsoever  un- 
melodious,  would  submit  to  be  left  out  of  the  second  verse; 
while  as  to  the  third  we  lifted  up  our  voices  in  a sacred 
howl  that  left  it  doubtful  whether  we  were  the  more  boast' 


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303 


ful  of  the  sentiments  we  united  in  professing,  or  of  profess- 
ing them  with  a most  discordant  defiance  of  time  and  tune. 

‘‘Lord  bless  us!”  thought  I,  when  a fresh  remembrance 
of  these  things  made  me  laugh  heartily  alone  in  the  dead 
water-gurgling  waste  of  the  night,  what  time  I was  wedged 
into  my  berth  by  a wooden  bar,  or  I must  have  rolled  out 
of  it,  “ what  errand  was  I then  upon,  and  to  what  Abys- 
sinian point  had  public  events  then  marched?  No  matter 
as  to  me.  And  as  to  them,  if  the  wonderful  popular  rage 
for  a plaything  (utterly  confounding  in  its  inscrutable  un- 
reason) had  not  then  lighted  on  a poor  young  savage  boy,_ 
and  a poor  old  screw  of  a horse,  and  hauled  the  first  off  by 
the  hair  of  his  princely  head  to  ‘inspect  ’ British  volunteers, 
and  hauled  the  second  off  by  the  hair  of  his  equine  tail  to 
the  Crystal  Palace,  why  so  much  the  better  for  all  of  us 
outside  Bedlam ! ” 

So,  sticking  to  the  ship,  I was  at  the  trouble  of  asking 
myself  would  I like  to  show  the  grog  distribution  in  “ the 
jfiddle”  at  noon  to  the  Grand  United  Amalgamated  Total 
Abstinence  Society?  Yes,  I think  I should.  I think  it 
would  do  them  good  to  smell  the  rum,  under  the  circum- 
stances. Over  the  grog,  mixed  in  a bucket,  presides  the 
boatswain’s  mate,  small  tin  can  in  hand.  Enter  the  crew, 
the  guilty  consumers,  the  grown-up  brood  of  Giant  Despair, 
in  contradistinction  to  the  band  of  youthful  angel  Hope. 
Some  in  boots,  some  in  leggings,  some  in  tarpaulin  over- 
ills,  some  in  frocks,  some  in  pea-coats,  a very  few  in  jack- 
ets, most  with  sou’wester  hats,  all  with  something  rough 
ind  rugged  round  the  throat;  all,  dripping  salt  water 
ivhere  they  stand;  all  pelted  by  weather,  besmeared  with 
grease,  and  blackened  by  the  sooty  rigging. 

Each  man’s  knife  in  its  sheath  in  his  girdle,  loosened  for 
linner.  As  the  first  man,  with  a knowingly  kindled  eye, 
vatches  the  filling  of  the  poisoned  chalice  (truly  but  a very 
imall  tin  mug,  to  be  prosaic),  and,  tossing  back  his  head, 
|:osses  the  contents  into  himself,  and  passes  the  empty 
jhalice  and  passes  on,  so  the  second  man  with  an  anticipa- 
tory wipe  of  his  mouth  or  sleeve  or  handkerchief,  bides  his 
urn,  and  drinks  and  hands  and  passes  on,  in  whom,  and 
n each  as  his  turn  approaches,  beams  a knowingly  kindled  ^ 
jye,  a brighter  temper,  and  a suddenly  awakened  tendency  ' 
o be  jocose  with  some  shipmate.  Nor  do  I even  observe 
hat  the  man  in  charge  of  the  ship’s  lamps,  who  in  right 


304 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


of  his  office  has  a double  allowance  of  poisoned  chalices, 
seems  thereby  vastly  degraded,  even  though  he  empties  the 
chalices  into  himself,  one  after  the  other,  much  as  if  he 
were  delivering  their  contents  at  some  absorbent  establish- 
ment in  which  he  had  no  personal  interest.  But  vastly 
comforted,  I note  them  all  to  be,  on  deck  presently,  even  to 
the  circulation  of  redder  blood  in  their  cold  blue  knuckles; 
and  when  I look  up  at  them  lying  out  on  the  yards,  and 
holding  on  for  life  among  the  beating  sails,  I cannot  for 
my  life  see  the  justice  of  visiting  on  them — or  on  me — 
the  drunken  crimes  of  any  number  of  criminals  arraigned 
at  the  heaviest  of  assizes. 

Abetting  niyself  in  my  idle  humour,  I closed  my  eyes, 
and  recalled  life  on  board  of  one  of  those  mail-packets,  as 
I lay,  part  of  that  day,  in  the  Bay  of  New  York,  0 ! The 
regular  life  began— mine  always  did,  for  I never  got  to 
sleep  afterwards — with  the  rigging  of  the  pump  while  it 
was  yet  dark,  and  washing  down  of  decks.  Any  enormous 
giant  at  a prodigious  hydropathic  establishment,  conscien- 
tiously undergoing  the  water-cure  in  all  its  departments, 
and  extremely  particular  about  cleaning  his  teeth,  would 
make  those  noises.  Swash,  splash,  scrub,  rub,  toothbrush, 
bubble,  swash,  splash,  bubble,  toothbrush,  splash,  splash, 
bubble,  rub.  Then  the  day  would  break,  and,  descending 
from  my  berth  by  a graceful  ladder  composed  of  half- 
opened  drawers  beneath  it,  I would  reopen  my  outer  dead- 
light and  my  inner  sliding  window  (closed  by  a watchman 
during  the  water-cure),  and  would  look  out  at  the  long- 
rolling,  lead-coloured,  white-topped  waves  over  which  the 
dawn,  on  a cold  winter  morning,  cast  a level,  lonely  glance, 
and  through  which  the  ship  fought  her  melancholy  way  at 
a terrific  rate.  And  now,  lying  down  again,  awaiting  the 
season  for  broiled  ham  and  tea,  I would  be  compelled  to 
listen  to  the  voice  of  conscience, — the  screw. 

It  might  be,  in  some  cases,  no  more  than  the  voice  of 
stomach;  but  I called  it  in  my  fancy  by  the  higher  name. 
Because  it  seemed  to  me  that  we  were  all  of  us,  all  day 
long,  endeavouring  to  stifle  the  voice.  Because  it  was 
under  everybody’s  pillow,  everybody’s  plate,  everybody’s 
camp-stool,  everybody’s  book,  everybody’s  occupation.  Be- 
cause we  pretended  not  to  hear  it,  especially  at  meal- times, 
evening  whist,  and  morning  conversation  on  deck;  but  it 
was  always  among  us  in  an  under  monotone,  not  to  be 


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305 


drowned  in  pea-soup,  not  to  be  shuffled  with  cards,  not  to 
be  diverted  by  books,  not  to  be  knitted  into  any  pattern, 
not  to  be  walked  away  from.  It  was  smoked  in  the  weedi- 
est cigar,  and  drunk  in  the  strongest  cocktail;  it  was  con- 
veyed on  deck  at  noon  with  limp  ladies,  who  lay  there  in 
their  wrappers  until  the  stars  shone;  it  waited  at  table 
with  the  stewards;  nobody  could  put  it  out  with  the  lights. 
It  was  considered  (as  on  shore)  ill-bred  to  acknowledge  the 
voice  of  conscience.  It  was  not  polite  to  mention  it.  One 
squally  day  an  amiable  gentleman  in  love  gave  much 
offence  to  a surrounding  circle,  including  the  object  of  his 
attachment,  by  saying  of  it,  after  it  had  goaded  him  over 
two  easy-chairs  and  a skylight,  Screw ! 

Sometimes  it  would  appear  subdued.  In  fleeting  mo- 
ments, when  bubbles  of  champagne  pervaded  the  nose,  or 
when  there  was  hot  pot  ’’  in  the  bill  of  fare,  or  when  an 
old  dish  we  had  had  regularly  every  day  was  described  in 
that  offlcial  document  by  a new  name, — under  such  excite- 
|ments,  one  would  almost  believe  it  hushed.  The  ceremony 
of  washing  plates  on  deck,  performed  after  every  meal  by 
a circle  as  of  ringers  of  crockery  triple-bob  majors  for  a 
prize,  would  keep  it  down.  Hauling  the  reel,  taking  the 
sun  at  noon,  posting  the  twenty-four  hours’  run,  altering 
the  ship’s  time  by  the  meridian,  casting  the  waste  food 
overboard,  and  attracting  the  eager  gulls  that  followed  in 
our  wake, — these  events  would  suppress  it  for  a while. 
But  the  instant  any  break  or  pause  took  place  in  any  such 
diversion,  the  voice  would  be  at  it  again,  importuning  us 
to  the  last  extent.  A newly  married  young  pair,  who 
walked  the  deck  affectionately  some  twenty  miles  per  day, 
would,  in  the  full  flush  of  their  exercise,  suddenly  become 
stricken  by  it,  and  stand  trembling,  but  otherwise  immova- 
ble, under  its  reproaches. 

When  this  terrible  monitor  was  most  severe  with  us  was 
when  the  time  approached  for  our  retiring  to  our  dens  for 
the  night;  when  the  lighted  candles  in  the  saloon  grew 
fewer  and  fewer;  when  the  deserted  glasses  with  spoons  in 
them  grew  more  and  more  numerous;  when  waifs  of  toasted 
cheese  and  strays  of  sardines  fried  in  batter  slid  languidly 
to  and  fro  in  the  table-racks;  when  the  man  who  always* 
read  had  shut  up  his  book,  and  blown  out  his  candle;  when 
the  man  who  always  talked  had  ceased  from  troubling; 
when  the  man  who  was  always  medically  reported  as  going 


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to  have  delirium  tremens  had  put  it  off  till  to-morrow; 
when  the  man  who  every  night  devoted  himself  to  a mid- 
night smoke  on  deck  two  hours  in  length,  and  who  every 
night  was  in  bed  within  ten  minutes  afterwards,  was  but- 
toning himself  up  in  his  third  coat  for  his  hardy  vigil : for 
then,  as  we  fell  off  one  by  one,  and,  entering  our  several 
hutches,  came  into  a peculiar  atmosphere  of  bilge-water 
and  Windsor  soap,  the  voice  would  shake  us  to  the  centre. 
Woe  to  us  when  we  sat  down  on  our  sofa,  watching  the 
swinging  candle  for  ever  trying  and  retrying  to  stand  upon 
his  head ! or  our  coat  upon  its  peg,  imitating  us  as  we  ap- 
peared in  our  gymnastic  days  by  sustaining  itself  horizon- 
tally from  the  wall,  in  emulation  of  the  lighter  and  more 
facile  towels ! Then  would  the  voice  especially  claim  us 
for  its  prey,  and  rend  us  all  to  pieces. 

Lights  out,  we  in  our  berths,  and  the  wind  rising,  the 
voice  grows  angrier  and  deeper.  Under  the  mattress  and 
under  the  pillow,  under  the  sofa  and  under  the  washing- 
stand,  under  the  ship  and  under  the  sea,  seeming  to  rise 
from  the  foundations  under  the  earth  with  every  scoop  of 
the  great  Atlantic  (and  oh!  why  scoop  so?),  always  the 
voice.  Vain  to  deny  its  existence  in  the  night  season;  im- 
possible to  be  hard  of  hearing;  screw,  screw,  screw ! Some- 
times it  lifts  oul  of  the  water,  and  revolves  with  a whirr, 
like  a ferocious  firework, — except  that  it  never  expends 
itself,  but  is  always  ready  to  go  off  again;  sometimes  it 
seems  to  be  in  anguish,  and  shivers;  sometimes  it  seems  to 
be  terrified  by  its  last  plunge,  and  has  a fit  which  causes 
it  to  struggle,  quiver,  and  for  an  instant  stop.  And  now 
the  ship  sets  in  rolling,  as  only  ships  so  fiercely  screwed 
through  time  and  space,  day  and  night,  fair  weather  and 
foul,  can  roll. 

Did  she  ever  take  a roll  before  like  that  last?  Did  she 
ever  take  a roll  before  like  this  worse  one  that  is  coming 
now?  Here  is  the  partition  at  my  ear  down  in  the  deep 
on  the  leeside.  Are  we  ever  coming  up  again  together? 
T think  not;  the  partition  and  I are  so  long  about  it  that 
I really  do  believe  we  have  overdone  it  this  time.  Heav- 
ens, what  a scoop!  What  a deep  scoop,  what  a hollow 
scoop,  what  a long  scoop!  Will  it  ever  end,  and  can  we 
bear  the  heavy  mass  of  water  we  have  taken  on  board,  and 
which  has  let  loose  all  the  table  furniture  in  the  officers’ 
mess,  and  has  beaten  open  the  door  of  the  little  passage 


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307 


between  the  purser  and  me,  and  is  swashing  about,  even 
there  and  even  here?  The  purser  snores  reassuringly, 
and  the  ship's  bells  striking,  I hear  the  cheerful  '' All's 
well ! " of  the  watch  musically  given  back  the  length  of  the 
deck,  as  the  lately  diving  partition,  now  high  in  air,  tries 
(unsoftened  by  what  we  have  gone  through  together)  to 
force  me  out  of  bed  and  berth. 

All's  well!"  Comforting  to  know,  though  surely  all 
might  be  better.  Put  aside  the  roiling  and  the  rush  of 
water,  and  think  of  darting  through  such  darkness  with 
such  velocity.  Think  of  any  other  similar  object  coming 
in  the  opposite  direction ! 

Whether  there  may  be  an  attraction  in  two  such  moving 
bodies  out  at  sea,  which  may  help  accident  to  bring  them 
into  collision.'^  Thoughts,  too,  arise  (the  voice  never  silent 
I all  the  while,  but  marvellously  suggestive)  of  the  gulf  be- 
low; of  the  strange  unfruitful  mountain  ranges  and  deep 
valleys  over  which  we  are  passing;  of  monstrous  fish  mid- 
jWay;  of  the  ship's  suddenly  altering  her  course  on  her  own 
iccount,  and  with  a wild  plunge  settling  down,  and  making 
^liat  voyage  with  a crew  of  dead  discoverers.  Now,  too, 
me  recalls  an  almost  universal  tendency  on  the  part  of  pas- 
sengers to  stumble,  at  some  time  or  other  in  the  day,  on 
:he  topic  of  a certain  large  steamer  making  this  same  run, 
vhich  was  lost  at  sea,  and  never  heard  of  more.  Every- 
body has  seemed  under  a spell,  compelling  approach  to  the 
lireshold  of  the  grim  subject,  stoppage,  discomfiture,  and 
bretence  of  never  having  been  near  it.  The  boatswain's 
vhistle  sounds  I A change  in  the  wind,  hoarse  orders  issu- 
ng,  and  the  watch  very  busy.  Sails  come  crashing  home 
)veihead,  ropes  (that  seem  all  knot)  ditto;  every  man  en- 
gaged appears  to  have  twenty  feet,  with  twenty  times  the 
.verage  amount  of  stamping  power  in  each.  Gradually 
he  noise  slackens,  the  hoarse  cries  die  away,  the  boat- 
wain  s whistle  softens  into  the  soothing  and  contented 
kotes,  which  rather  reluctantly  admit  that  the  job  is  done 
or  the  time,  and  the  voice  sets  in  again. 

Thus  come  unintelligible  dreams  of  up  hill  and  down, 
nd  swinging  and  swaying,  until  consciousness  revives  of 
tmospherical  Windsor  soap  and  bilge-water,  and  the  voice  ' 
nnounces  that  the  giant  has  come  for  the  water-cure  again. 

Such  were  my  fanciful  reminiscences  as  I lay,  part  of 
hat  day,  in  the  Bay  of  New  York,  O ! Also  as  we  passed 


308 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


clear  of  the  Narrows,  and  got  out  to  sea;  also  in  many  an 
idle  honr  at  sea  in  sunny  weather ! At  length  the  observa- 
tions and  computations  showed  that  we  should  make  the 
coast  of  Ireland  to-night.  So  I stood  watch  on  deck  all 
night  to-night,  to  see  how  we  made  the  coast  of  Ireland. 

Very  dark,  and  the  sea  most  brilliantly  phosphorescent. 
Great  way  on  the  ship,  and  double  look-out  kept.  Vigi- 
lant captain  on  the  bridge,  vigilant  first  officer  looking  over 
the  port  side,  vigilant  second  officer  standing  by  the  quarter- 
master at  the  compass,  vigilant  third  officer  posted  at  the 
stern  rail  with  a lantern.  No  passengers  on  the  quiet 
decks,  but  expectation  everywhere  nevertheless.  The  two 
men  at  the  wheel  very  steady,  very  serious,  and  very 
prompt  to  answer  orders.  An  order  issued  sharply  now 
and  then,  and  echoed  back;  otherwise  the  night  drags 
slowly,  silently,  with  no  change. 

All  of  a sudden,  at  the  blank  hour  of  two  in  the  morn- 
ing, a vague  movement  of  relief  from  a long  strain  ex- 
presses itself  in  all  hands;  the  third  officer’s  lantern  twin- 
kles, and  he  fires  a rocket,  and  another  rocket.  A sullen 
solitary  light  is  pointed  out  to  me  in  the  black  sky  yonder. 
A change  is  expected  in  the  light,  but  none  takes  place. 
“ Give  them  two  more  rockets,  Mr.  Vigilant.”  Two  more, 
and  a blue-light  burnt.  All  eyes  watch  the  light  again. 
At  last  a little  toy  sky-rocket  is  flashed  up  from  it;  and, 
even  as  that  small  streak  in  the  darkness  dies  away,  we 
are  telegraphed  to  Queenstown,  Liverpool,  and  London,  and 
back  again  under  the  ocean  to  America. 

Then  up  come  the  half-dozen  passengers  who  are  going 
ashore  at  Queenstown,  and  up  comes  the  mail-agent  in 
charge  of  the  bags,  and  up  come  the  men  who  are  to  carry 
the  bags  into  the  mail-tender  that  will  come  off  for  them 
out  of  the  harbour.  Lamps  and  lanterns  gleam  here  and 
there  about  the  decks,  and  impeding  bulks  are  knocked 
away  with  handspikes;  and  the  port-side  bulwark,  barren 
but  a moment  ago,  bursts  into  a crop  of  heads  of  seamen, 
stewards,  and  engineers. 

The  light  begins  to  be  gained  upon,  begins  to  be  along- 
side, begins  to  be  left  astern.  More  rockets,  and,  between 
us  and  the  land,  steams  beautifully  the  Inman  steamship 
City  of  Paris,  for  New  York,  outward  bound.  We  observe 
with  complacency  that  the  wind  is  oead  against  her  (it 
being  with  us),  and  that  she  rolls  and  pitches.  (The  sick- 


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309 


est  passenger  on  board  is  the  most  delighted  by  this  circum- 
stance.) Time  rushes  by  as  we  rush  on;  and  now  we  see 
the  light  in  Queenstown  Harbour,  and  now  the  lights  of 
the  mail-tender  coming  out  to  us.  What  vagaries  the  mail- 
tender  performs  on  the  way,  in  every  point  of  the  compass, 
especially  in  those  where  she  has  no  business,  and  why  she 
performs  them.  Heaven  only  knows!  At  length  she  is 
seen  plunging  within  a cable’s  length  of  our  port  broadside, 
and  is  being  roared  at  through  our  speaking-trumpets  to  do 
this  thing,  and  not  to  do  that,  and  to  stand  by  the  other, 
as  if  she  were  a very  demented  tender  indeed.  Then,  we 
slackening  amidst  a deafening  roar  of  steam,  this  much- 
abused  tender  is  made  fast  to  us  by  haw^sers,  and  the  men 
in  readiness  carry  the  bags  aboard,  and  return  for  more, 
bending  under  their  burdens,  and  looking  just  like  the 
pasteboard  figures  of  the  miller  and  his  men  in  the  theatre 
of  our  boyhood,  and  comporting  themselves  almost  as  un- 
steadily. All  the  while  the  unfortunate  tender  plunges 
,high  and  low,  and  is  roared  at.  Then  the  Queenstown 
I passengers  are  put  on  board  of  her,  with  infinite  plunging 
and  roaring,  and  the  tender  gets  heaved  up  on  the  sea  to 
that  surprising  extent  that  she  looks  within  an  ace  of 
washing  aboard  of  us,  high  and  dry.  Roared  at  with  con- 
tumely to  the  last,  this  wretched  tender  is  at  length  let  go, 
with  a final  plunge  of  great  ignominy,  and  falls  spinning 
into  our  wake. 

The  voice  of  conscience  resumed  its  dominion  as  the  day 
climbed  up  the  sky,  and  kept  by  all  of  us  passengers  into 
port;  kept  by  us  as  we  passed  other  lighthouses,  and  dan- 
gerous islands  off  the  coast,  where  some  of  the  officers, 
with  whom  I stood  my  watch,  had  gone  ashore  in  sailing- 
, ships  in  fogs  (and  of  which  by  that  token  they  seemed  to 
have  quite  an  affectionate  remembrance),  and  past  the 
Welsh  coast,  and  past  the  Cheshire  coast,  and  past  every- 
thing and  everywhere  lying  between  our  ship  and  her  own 
special  dock  in  the  Mersey.  Off  which,  at  last,  at  nine  of 
the  clock,  on  a fair  evening  early  in  May,  we  stopped,  and 
jhe  voice  ceased.  A very  curious  sensation,  not  unlike 
having  my  own  ears  stopped,  ensued  upon  that  silence; 
ind  it  was  with  a no  less  curious  sensation  that  I went  over . 
:he  side  of  the  good  Ounard  ship  Russia  ” (whom  pros- 
perity attend  through  all  her  voyages!)  and  surve^’-ed  the 
mter  hull  of  the  gracious  monster  that  the  voice  had  in- 


310 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


habited.  So,  perhaps,  shall  we  all,  in  the  spirit,  one  day 
survey  the  frame  that  held  the  busier  voice  from  which  my 
vagrant  fancy  derived  this  similitude. 


XXXII. 

A SMALL  STAR  IN  THE  EAST. 

I HAD  been  looking,  yesternight,  through  the  famous 
‘CDance  of  Death, and  to-day  the  grim  old  woodcuts  arose 
in  my  mind  with  the  new  significance  of  a ghastly  monotony 
not  to  be  found  in  the  original.  The  weird  skeleton  rattled 
along  the  streets  before  me  and  struck  fiercely;  but  it  was 
never  at  the  pains  of  assuming  a disguise.  It  played  on 
no  dulcimer  here,  was  crowed  with  no  flowers,  waved  no 
plume,  minced  in  no  flowing  robe  or  train,  lifted  no  wine- 
cup,  sat  at  no  feast,  cast  no  dice,  counted  no  gold.  It  was 
simply  a bare,  gaunt,  famished  skeleton,  slaying  his  way 
along. 

The  borders  of  Ratcliff  and  Stepney,  eastward  of  Lon- 
don, and  giving  on  the  impure  river,  were  the  scene  of  this 
uncompromising  dance  of  death,  upon  a drizzling  Novem- 
ber day.  A squalid  maze  of  streets,  courts,  and  alleys  of 
miserable  houses  let  out  in  single  rooms.  A wilderness  of 
dirt,  rags,  and  hunger.  A mud-desert,  chiefly  inhabited  by 
a tribe  from  whom  employment  has  departed,  or  to  whom 
it  comes  but  fitfully  and  rarely.  They  are  not  skilled  me- 
chanics in  any  wise.  They  are  but  labourers, — dock-labour- 
ers, water- side  labourers,  coal-porters,  ballast-heavers,  such 
like  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of  water.  But  they  have 
come  into  existence,  and  they  propagate  their  wretched 
race. 

One  grisly  joke  alone,  methought,  the  skeleton  seemed 
to  play  off  here.  It  had  stuck  election-bills  on  the  walls, 
which  the  wind  and  rain  had  deteriorated  into  suitable 
rags.  It  had  even  summed  up  the  state  of  the  poll,  in 
chalk,  on  the  shutters  of  one  ruined  house.  It  adjured  the 
free  and  independent  starvers  to  vote  for  Thisman  and  vote 
for  Thatman;  not  to  plump,  as  they  valued  the  state  of 
parties  and  the  national  prosperity  (both  of  great  impor- 
tance to  them,  I think);  but,  byreturning  Thisman  and 


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311 


Thatraan,  each  naught  without  the  other,  to  compound  a 
glorious  and  immortal  whole.  Surely  the  skeleton  is  no- 
where more  cruelly  ironical  in  the  original  monkish  idea ! 

Pondering  in  my  mind  the  far-seeing  schemes  of  This- 
man  and  Thatman,  and  of  the  public  blessing  called  Party, 
for  staying  the  degeneracy,  physical  and  moral,  of  many 
thousands  (who  shall  say  how  many?)  of  the  English  race; 
for  devising  employment  useful  to  the  community  for  those 
who  want  but  to  work  and  live;  for  equalising  rates,  culti- 
vating waste  lands,  facilitating  emigration,  and,  above  all 
things,  saving  and  utilising  the  oncoming  generations,  and 
thereby  changing  ever-growing  national  weakness  into 
strength : pondering  in  my  mind,  I say,  these  hopeful  ex- 
ertions, I turned  down  a narrow  street  to  look  into  a house 
or  two. 

It  was  a dark  street  with  a dead  wall  on  one  side. 
Nearly  all  the  outer  doors  of  the  houses  stood  open.  I 
took  the  first  entry,  and  knocked  at  a parlour-door.  Might 
1 1 come  in?  I might,  if  I plased,  sur. 

The  woman  of  the  room  (Irish)  had  picked  up  some  long 
strips  of  wood,  about  some  wharf  or  barge;  and  they  had 
just  now  been  thrust  into  the  otherwise  empty  grate  to 
make  two  iron  pots  boil.  There  was  some  fish  in  one,  and 
there  were  some  potatoes  in  the  other.  The  flare  of  the 
burning  wood  enabled  me  to  see  a table,  and  a broken  chair 
or  so,  and  some  old  cheap  crockery  ornaments  about  the 
chimney-piece.  It  was  not  until  I had  spoken  with  the 
woman  a few  minutes,  that  I saw  a horrible  brown  heap  on 
the  floor  in  a corner,  which,  but  for  previous  experience  in 
this  dismal  wise,  I might  not  have  suspected  to  be  ‘^the 
bed.’’  There  was  something  thrown  upon  it;  and  I asked 
what  that  was. 

“’Tis  the  poor  craythur  that  stays  here,  sur;  and  ’tis 
very  bad  she  is,  and  ’tis  very  bad  she’s  been  this  long  time, 
and  ’tis  better  she’ll  never  be,  and  ’tis  slape  she  does  all 
day,  and  ’tis  wake  she  does  all  night,  and  ’tis  the  lead, 
sur.” 

^‘The  what?  ” 

“The  lead,  sur.  Sure  ’tis  the  lead-mills,  where  the 
women  gets  took  on  at  eighteen-pence  a day,  sur,  when' 
they  makes  application  early  enough,  and  is  lucky  and 
wanted;  and  ’tis  lead-pisoned  she  is,  sur,  and  some  of 
them  gets  lead-pisoned  soon,  and  some  of  them  gets  lead- 


312  the  uncommercial  TRxV.VELLER. 

pisoned  later,  and  some,  but  not  many,  niver;  and  ^tis  all 
according  to  the  constitooshun,  sur,  and  some  constitoo- 
shuiis  is  strong,  and  some  is  weak;  and  her  constitooshun 
is  lead-pisoned,  bad  as  can  be,  sur;  and  her  brain  is  coming 
out  at  her  ear,  and  it  hurts  her  dreadful;  and  thaUs  what 
it  is,  and  niver  no  more,  and  niver  no  less,  sur.’’ 

The  sick  young  woman  moaning  here,  the  speaker  bent 
over  her,  took  a bandage  from  her  head,  and  threw  open  a 
back  door  to  let  in  the  daylight  upon  it,  from  the  smallest 
and  most  miserable  backyard  I ever  saw. 

That’s  what  cooms  from  her,  sur,  being  lead-pisoned; 
and  it  cooms  from  her  night  and  day,  the  poor,  sick  cray- 
thur;  and  the  pain  of  it  is  dreadful;  and  God  he  knows 
that  my  husband  has  walked  the  sthreets  these  four  days, 
being  a labourer,  and  is  walking  them  now,  and  is  ready  to 
work,  and  no  work  for  him,  and  no  fire  and  no  food  but 
the  bit  in  the  pot,  and  no  more  than  ten  shillings  in  a fort- 
night; God  be  good  to  us!  and  it  is  poor  we  are,  and  dark 
it  is  and  could  it  is  indeed.” 

Knowing  that  I could  compensate  myself  thereafter  for 
my  self-denial,  if  I saw  fit,  I had  resolved  that  I would 
give  nothing  in  the  course  of  these  visits.  I did  this  to 
try  the  people.  I may  state  at  once  that  my  closest  obser- 
vation could  not  detect  any  indication  whatever  of  an  ex- 
pectation that  I would  give  money : they  were  grateful  to 
be  talked  to  about  their  miserable  affairs,  and  sympathy 
was  plainly  a comfort  to  them;  but  they  neither  asked  for 
money  in  any  case,  nor  showed  the  least  trace  of  surprise 
or  disappointment  or  resentment  at  my  giving  none. 

The  woman’s  married  daughter  had  by  this  time  come 
down  from  her  room  on  the  floor  above,  to  join  in  the  con- 
versation. She  herself  had  been  to  the  lead-mills  very 
early  that  morning  to  be  took  on,”  but  had  not  succeeded. 
She  had  four  children;  and  her  husband,  also  a water-side 
labourer,  and  then  out  seeking  work,  seemed  in  no  better 
case  as  to  finding  it  than  her  father.  She  was  English,  and 
by  nature  of  a buxom  figure  and  cheerful.  Both  in  her 
poor  dress  and  in  her  mother’s  there  was  an  effort  to  keep 
up  some  appearance  of  neatness.  She  knew  all  about  the 
sufferings  of  the  unfortunate  invalid,  and  all  about  the 
lead-poisoning,  and  how  the  symptoms  came  on,  and  how 
they  grew, — having  often  seen  them.  Tlie  very  smell 
when  you  stood  inside  the  door  of  the  ^vorks  was  enough 


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313 


to  knock  you  down,  she  said : yet  she  was  going  back  again 
to  get  ^Hook  on.’’  What  could  she  do?  Better  be  ulcer- 
ated and  paralysed  for  eighteen-pence  a day,  while  it  lasted, 
than  see  the  children  starve. 

A dark  and  squalid  cupboard  in  this  room,  touching  the 
back  door  and  all  manner  of  offence,  had  been  for  some 
time  the  sleeping  place  of  the  sick  young  woman.  But  the 
nights  being  now  wintry,  and  the  blankets  and  coverlets 
^^gone  to  the  leaving  shop,”  she  lay  all  night  where  she 
lay  all  day,  and  was  lying  then.  The  woman  of  the  room, 
her  husband,  this  most  miserable  patient,  and  two  others, 
lay  on  the  one  brown  heap  together  for  warmth. 

God  bless  you,  sir,  and  thank  you ! ” were  the  parting 
words  from  these  people, — gratefully  spoken  too, — with 
which  I left  this  place. 

Some  streets  away,  I tapped  at  another  parlour-door  on 
another  ground-floor.  Looking  in,  I found  a man,  his 
wife,  and  four  children,  sitting  at  a washing-stool  by  way 
i of  table,  at  their  dinner  of  bread  and  infused  tea-leaves. 

' There  was  a very  scanty  cinderous  fire  in  the  grate  by 
which  they  sat;  and  there  was  a tent  bedstead  in  the  room 
with  a bed  upon  it  and  a coverlet.  The  man  did  not  rise 
when  I went  in,  nor  during  my  stay,  but  civilly  inclined 
his  head  on  my  pulling  off  my  hat,  and,  in  answer  to  my 
inquiry  whether  I might  ask  him  a question  or  two,  said, 
‘^Certainly.”  There  being  a window  at  each  end  of  this 
room,  back  and  front,  it  might  have  been  ventilated;  but  it 
was  shut  up  tight,  to  keep  the  cold  out,  and  was  very 
sickening. 

The  wife,  an  intelligent,  quick  woman,  rose  and  stood  at 
her  husband’s  elbow;  and  he  glanced  up  at  her  as  if  for 
help.  It  soon  appeared  that  he  was  rather  deaf.  He  was 
a slow,  simple  fellow  of  about  thirty. 

What  was  he  by  trade?  ” 

^‘Gentleman  asks  what  are  you  by  trade,  John? ” 

am  a boilermaker;  ” looking  about  him  with  an  ex- 
ceedingly perplexed  air,  as  if  for  a boiler  that  had  unac- 
countably vanished. 

‘‘He  ain’t  a mechanic,  you  understand,  sir,”  the  wife 
put  in:  “he’s  only  a labourer.” 

“ Are  you  in  work?  ” 

He  looked  up  at  his  wife  again.  “Gentleman  says  are 
you  in  work,  John?  ” 


314 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


“In  work!’^  cried  this  forlorn  boilermaker,  staring 
aghast  at  his  wife,  and  then  working  his  vision’s  way  very 
slowly  round  to  me : “ Lord,  no ! ” 

“Ah,  he  ain’t  indeed!”  said  the  poor  woman,  shaking 
her  head,  as  she  looked  at  the  four  children  in  succession, 
and  then  at  him. 

“ Work!  ” said  the  boilermaker,  still  seeking  that  evapo- 
rated boiler,  first  in  my  countenance,  then  in  the  air,  and 
then  in  the  features  of  his  second  son  at  his  knee : “ I wish 
I was  in  work ! I haven’t  had  more  than  a day’s  work  to 
do  this  three  weeks.” 

“ How  have  you  lived?  ” 

A faint  gleam  of  admiration  lighted  up  the  face  of  the 
would-be  boilermaker,  as  he  stretched  out  the  short  sleeve 
of  his  threadbare  canvas  jacket,  and  replied,  pointing  her 
out,  “On  the  work  of  the  wife.” 

I forget  where  boilermaking  had  gone  to,  or  where  he 
supposed  it  had  gone  to;  but  he  added  some  resigned  in- 
formation on  that  head,  coupled  with  an  expression  of  his 
belief  that  it  was  never  coming  back. 

The  cheery  helpfulness  of  the  wife  was  very  remarkable. 
She  did  slop-work;  made  pea-jackets.  She  produced  the 
pea-jacket  then  in  hand,  and  spread  it  out  upon  the  bed, — 
the  only  piece  of  furniture  in  the  room  on  which  to  spread 
it.  She  showed  how  much  of  it  she  made,  and  how  much 
was  afterwards  finished  off  by  the  machine.  According  to 
her  calculation  at  the  moment,  deducting  what  her  trimming 
cost  her,  she  got  for  making  a pea-jacket  tenpence  half- 
penny, and  she  could  make  one  in  something  less  than 
two  days. 

But,  you  see,  it  come  to  her  through  two  hands,  and  of 
course  it  didn’t  come  through  the  second  hand  for  nothing. 
Why  did  it  come  through  the  second  hand  at  all?  W^hy, 
this  way.  The  second  hand  took  the  risk  of  the  given-out 
work,  you  see.  If  she  had  money  enough  to  pay  the  secur- 
ity deposit, — call  it  two  pound, — she  could  get  the  work 
from  the  first  hand,  and  so  the  second  would  not  have  to 
be  deducted  for.  But,  having  no  money  at  all,  the  second 
hand  come  in  and  took  its  profit,  and  so  the  whole  worked 
down  to  tenpence  half-penny.  Having  explained  all  this 
with  great  intelligence,  even  with  some  little  pride,  and 
without  a whine  or  murmur,  she  folded  her  work  again,  sat 
down  by  her  husband’s  side  at  the  washing-stool,  and 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


315 


I resumed  her  dinner  of  dry  bread.  Mean  as  the  meal  was, 
on  the  bare  board,  with  its  old  gallipots  for  cups,  and  what 
not  other  sordid  make-shifts;  shabby  as  the  woman  was  in 
dress,  and  toning  down  towards  the  Bosjesman  colour,  with 
want  of  nutriment  and  washing, — there  was  positively  a 
dignity  in  her,  as  the  family  anchor  just  holding  the  poor 
U shipwrecked  boilermaker’s  bark.  When  I left  the  room, 
jlthe  boilermaker’s  eyes  were  slowly  turned  towards  her,  as 
if  his  last  hope  of  ever  again  seeing  that  vanished  boiler 
lay  in  her  direction. 

'i  These  people  had  never  applied  for  parish  relief  but 
I once;  and  that  was  when  the  husband  met  with  a disabling 
{accident  at  his  work. 

Not  many  doors  from  here,  I went  into  a room  on  the 
■ first  floor.  The  woman  apologised  for  its  being  in  “ an  un- 
|tidy  mess.”  The  day  was  Saturday,  and  she  was  boiling 
' the  children’s  clothes  in  a saucepan  on  the  hearth.  There 
was  nothing  else  into  which  she  could  have  put  them. 
There  was  no  crockery,  or  tinware,  or  tub,  or  bucket. 
There  was  an  old  gallipot  or  two,  and  there  was  a broken 
. bottle  or  so,  and  there  were  some  broken  boxes  for  seats. 
The  last  small  scraping  of  coals  left  was  raked  together  in 
a corner  of  the  floor.  There  were  some  rags  in  an  open 
cupboard,  also  on  the  floor.  In  a corner  of  the  room  was 
a crazy  old  French  bedstead,  with  a man  lying  on  his  back 
upon  it  in  a ragged  pilot  jacket,  and  rough  oil-skin  fantail 
hat.  The  room  was  perfectly  black.  It  was  difficult  to 
believe,  at  first,  that  it  was  not  purposely  coloured  black, 
the  walls  were  so  begrimed. 

As  I stood  opposite  the  woman  boiling  the  children’s 
clothes, — she  had  not  even  a piece  of  soap  to  wash  them 
with, — and  apologising  for  her  occupation,  I could  take  in  all 
.these  things  without  appearing  to  notice  them,  and  could 
leven  correct  my  inventory.  I had  missed,  at  the  first  glance, 
some  half  a pound  of  bread  in  the  otherwise  empty  safe, 
[an  old  red  ragged  crinoline  hanging  on  the  handle  of  the 
floor  by  which  I had  entered,  and  certain  fragments  of  rusty 
iron  scattered  the  floor,  which  looked  like  broken  tools  and 
a piece  of  stove-pipe.  A child  stood  looking  on.  On  the 
fbox  nearest  to  the  fire  sat  two  younger  children;  one  a deli-, 
;3ate  and  pretty  little  creature,  whom  the  other  sometimes 
Aissed. 

This  woman,  like  the  last,  was  wofully  shabby,  and  was 


316 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


degenerating  to  the  Bosjesman  complexion.  But  her  figure, 
and  the  ghost  of  a certain  vivacity  about  her,  and  the  spec- 
tre of  a dimple  in  her  cheek,  carried  my  memory  strangely 
back  to  the  old  days  of  the  Adelphi  Theatre,  London,  when 
Mrs.  Fitzwilliam  was  the  friend  of  Victorine. 

May  I ask  you  what  your  husband  is?  ” 

‘‘He^s  a coal-porter,  sir,” — with  a glance  and  a sigh 
towards  the  bed. 

“ Is  he  out  of  work?  ” 

^^Oh,  yes,  sir!  and  work’s  at  all  times  very,  very  scanty 
with  him;  and  now  he’s  laid  up.” 

‘^It’s  my  legs,”  said  the  man  upon  the  bed.  ‘‘I’ll  un- 
roll ’em.”  And  immediately  began. 

“ Have  you  any  older  children?  ” 

“ I have  a daughter  that  does  the  needle- work,  and  I 
have  a son  that  does  what  he  can.  She’s  at  her  work  now, 
and  he’s  trying  for  work.” 

“Do  they  live  here?  ” 

“They  sleep  here.  They  can’t  afford  to  pay  more  rent, 
and  so  they  come  here  at  night.  The  rent  is  very  hard 
upon  us.  It’s  rose  upon  us  too,  now, — sixpence  a week, — 
on  account  of  these  new  changes  in  the  law,  about  the 
rates.  We  are  a week  behind;  the  landlord’s  been  shak- 
ing and  rattling  at  that  door  frightfully;  he  says  he’ll  turn 
us  out.  I don’t  know  what’s  to  come  of  it.” 

The  man  upon  the  bed  ruefully  interposed,  “Here’s  my 
legs.  The  skin’s  broke,  besides  the  swelling.  I have  had 
a many  kicks,  working,  one  way  and  another.” 

He  looked  at  his  legs  (which  were  much  discoloured  and 
misshapen)  for  a while,  and  then  appearing  to  remember 
that  they  were  not  popular  with  his  family,  rolled  them  up 
again,  as  if  they  were  something  in  the  nature  of  maps  or 
plans  that  were  not  wanted  to  be  referred  to,  lay  helplessly 
down  on  his  back  once  more  with  his  fantail  hat  over  his 
face,  and  stirred  not. 

“Do  your  eldest  son  and  daughter  sleep  in  that  cup- 
board? ” 

“Yes,”  replied  the  woman. 

“ With  the  children?  ” 

“ Yes.  We  have  to  get  together  for  warmth.  We  have 
little  to  cover  us.” 

“ Have  you  nothing  by  you  to  eat  but  the  piece  of  bread 
I see  there?  ” 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  317 

‘'Nothing.  And  we  had  the  rest  of  the  loaf  for  our 
breakfast,  with  water.  I don^t  know  what’s  to  come  of 
it.” 

" Have  you  no  prospect  of  improvement?  ” 

"If  my  eldest  son  earns  anything  to-day,  he’ll  bring  it 
home.  Then  we  shall  have  something  to  eat  to-night,  and 
may  be  able  to  do  something  towards  the  rent.  If  not,  I 
don’t  know  what’s  to  come  of  it.” 

"This  is  a sad  state  of  things.” 

Yes,  sir;  it’s  a hard,  hard  life.  Take  care  of  the  stairs 
as  you  go,  sir, — they’re  broken,— and  good  day,  sir!” 

These  people  had  a mortal  dread  of  entering  the  work- 
house,  and  received  no  out-of-door  relief. 

In  another  room,  in  still  another  tenement,  I found  a 
very  decent  woman  with  five  children,— the  last  a baby, 
and  she  herself  a patient  of  the  parish  doctor,  — to  whom, 
her  husband  being  in  the  hospital,  the  Union  allowed  for 
the  support  of  herself  and  family,  four  shillings  a week 
and  five  loaves.  I suppose  when  Thisman,  M.P.,  and 
Thatman,  M.P.,  and  the  Public- blessing  Party,  lay  their 
heads  together  in  course  of  time,  and  come  to  an  equalisa- 
tion of  rating,  she  may  go  down  to  the  dance  of  death  to 
the  tune  of  sixpence  more. 

I could  enter  no  other  houses  for  that  one  while,  for  I 
30uld  not  bear  the  contemplation  of  the  children.  Such 
leart  as  I had  summoned  to  sustain  me  against  the  mis- 
eries of  the  adults  failed  me  when  Hooked  at  the  children. 

[ saw  how  young  they  were,  how  hungry,  how  serious  and 
,5till.  I thought  of  them,  sick  and  dying  in  those  lairs.  I 
-hink  of  them  dead  without  anguish;  but  to  think  of  them 
,50  suffering  and  so  dying  quite  unmanned  me. 

Down  by  the  river’s  bank  in  Patcliff,  I was  turning  up- 
vard  by  a side-street,  therefore,  to  regain  the  railway, 
vhen  my  eyes  rested  on  the  inscription  across  the  road. 
East  London  Children’s  Hospital.”  I could  scarcely 
iiave  seen  an  inscription  better  suited  to  my  frame  of  mind; 
.nd  I went  across  and  went  straight  in. 

I found  the  children’s  hospital  established  in  an  old  sail- 
oft  or  storehouse,  of  the  roughest  nature,  and  on  the  sim- 
dest  means.  There  were  trap-doors  in  the  floors,  where  . 
.oods  had  been  hoisted  up  and  down;  heavy  feet  and  heavy 
veights  had  started  every  knot  in  the  well-trodden  plank- 
ag : inconvenient  bulks  and  beams  and  awkward  staircases 


318 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


perplexed  my  passage  through  the  wards.  But  I found  it 
airy,  sweet,  and  clean.  In  its  seven  and  thirty  beds  I saw 
but  little  beauty;  for  starvation  in  the  second  or  third  gen- 
eration takes  a pinched  look : but  I saw  the  sufferings  both 
of  infancy  and  childhood  tenderly  assuaged;  I heard  the  lit- 
tle patients  answering  to  pet  playful  names,  the  light  touch 
of  a delicate  lady  laid  bare  the  wasted  sticks  of  arm  for 
me  to  pity;  and  the  claw-like  little  hands,  as  she  did  so, 
twined  themselves  lovingly  around  her  wedding-ring. 

One  baby  mite  there  was  as  pretty  as  any  of  Eaphaehs 
angels.  The  tiny  head  was  bandaged  for  water  on  the 
brain;  and  it  was  suffering  with  acute  bronchitis  too,  and 
made  from  time  to  time  a plaintive,  though  not  impatient 
or  complaining,  little  sound.  The  smooth  curve  of  the 
cheeks  and  of  the  chin  was  faultless  in  its  condensation  of 
infantine  beauty,  and  the  large  bright  eyes  were  most 
lovely.  It  happened  as  I stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
that  these  eyes  rested  upon  mine  with  that  wistful  expres- 
sion of  wondering  thoughtfulness  which  we  all  know 
sometimes  in  very  little  children.  They  remained  fixed  on 
mine,  and  never  turned  from  me  while  I stood  there.  When 
the  utterance  of  that  plaintive  sound  shook  the  little  form, 
the  gaze  still  remained  unchanged.  I felt  as  though  the 
child  implored  me  to  tell  the  story  of  the  little  hospital  in 
which  it  was  sheltered  to  any  gentle  heart  I could  address. 
Laying  my  world-worn  hand  upon  the  little  unmarked 
clasped  hand  at  the  chin,  I gave  it  a silent  promise  that  I 
would  do  so. 

A gentleman  and  lady,  a young  husband  and  wife,  have 
bought  and  fitted  up  this  building  for  its  present  noble  use, 
and  have  quietly  settled  themselves  in  it  as  its  medical 
officers  and  directors.  Both  have  had  considerable  prac- 
tical experience  of  medicine  and  surgery;  he  as  house- 
surgeon  of  a great  London  hospital;  she  as  a very  earnest 
student,  tested  by  severe  examination,  and  also  as  a nurse 
of  the  sick  poor  during  the  prevalence  of  cholera. 

With  every  qualification  to  lure  them  away,  with  youth 
and  accomplishments  and  tastes  and  habits  that  can  have 
no  response  in  any  breast  near  them,  close  begirt  by  every 
repulsive  circumstance  inseparable  from  such  a neighbour- 
hood, there  they  dwell.  They  live  in  the  hospital  itself, 
and  their  rooms  are  on  its  first  floor.  Sitting  at  tlieir 
dinner- table,  they  could  hear  the  cry  of  one  of  the  childrt'ii 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


319 


in  pain.  The  lady’s  piano,  drawing-materials,  books,  and 
other  such  evidences  of  refinement  are  as  much  a part  of 
the  rough  place  as  the  iron  bedsteads  of  the  little  patients. 
They  are  put  to  shifts  for  room,  like  passengers  on  board 
ship.  The  dispenser  of  medicines  (attracted  to  them  not 
by  self-interest,  but  by  their  own  magnetism  and  that  of 
their  cause)  sleeps  in  a recess  in  the  dining-room,  and  has 
his  washing  apparatus  in  the  sideboard. 

Their  contented  manner  of  making  the  best  of  the  things 
around  them,  I found  so  pleasantly  inseparable  from  their 
usefulness ! Their  pride  in  this  partition  that  we  put  up 
ourselves,  or  in  that  partition  that  we  took  down,  or  in 
that  other  partition  that  we  moved,  or  in  the  stove  that 
was  given  us  for  the  waiting-room,  or  in  our  nightly  con- 
version of  the  little  consulting-room  into  a smoking-room ! 
Their  admiration  of  the  situation,  if  we  could  only  get  rid 
of  its  one  objectionable  incident,  tlie  coal-yard  at  the  back! 

^ ^^Our  hospital  carriage,  presented  by  a friend,  and  very 
' useful.”  That  was  my  presentation  to  a perambulator, 
for  which  a coach-house  had  been  discovered  in  a corner 
down-stairs,  just  large  enough  to  hold  it.  Coloured  prints, 
in  all  stages  of  preparation  for  being  added  to  those  already 
decorating  the  wards,  were  plentiful;  a charming  wooden 
phenomenon  of  a bird,  with  an  impossible  topknot,  who 
ducked  his  head  when  you  set  a counter  weight  going,  had 
been  inaugurated  as  a public  statue  that  very  morning; 
and  trotting  about  among  the  beds,  on  familiar  terms  with 
all  the  patients,  was  a comical  mongrel  dog,  called  Poodles. 
This  comical  dog  (quite  a tonic  in  himself)  was  found  char- 
acteristically starving  at  the  door  of  the  institution,  and 
was  taken  in  and  fed,  and  has  lived  here  ever  since.  An 
admirer  of  his  mental  endowments  has  presented  him  with 
a collar  bearing  the  legend,  Judge  not  Poodles  by  exter- 
nal appearances.”  He  was  merrily  wagging  his  tail  on 
a boy’s  pillow  when  he  made  this  modest  appeal  to  me. 

When  this  hospital  was  first  opened,  in  January  of  the 
present  year,  the  people  could  not  possibly  conceive  but 
that  somebody  paid  for  the  services  rendered  there;  and 
were  disposed  to  claim  them  as  a right,  and  to  find  fault  if 
out  of  temper.  They  soon  came  to  understand  the  case 
better,  and  have  much  increased  in  gratitude.  The  mothers 
of  the  patients  avail  themselves  very  freely  of  the  visiting 
rules;  the  fathers  often  on  Sundays.  There  is  an  unrea' 


320 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


sonable  (but  still,  I think,  touching  and  intelligible)  ten- 
dency in  the  parents  to  take  a child  away  to  its  wretched 
home,  if  on  the  point  of  death.  One  boy  who  had  been 
thus  carried  off  on  a rainy  night,  when  in  a violent  state  of 
inflammation,  and  who  had  been  afterwards  brought  back, 
had  been  recovered  with  exceeding  difficulty;  but  he  was  a 
jolly  boy,  with  a specially  strong  interest  in  his  dinner, 
when  I saw  him. 

Insufficient  food  and  unwholesome  living  are  the  main 
causes  of  disease  among  these  small  patients.  So  nourish- 
ment, cleanliness,  and  ventilation  are  the  main  remedies. 
Discharged  patients  are  looked  after,  and  invited  to  come 
and  dine  now  and  then;  so  are  certain  famishing  creatures 
who  were  never  patients.  Both  the  lady  and  the  gentle- 
man are  well  acquainted,  not  only  with  the  histories  of  the 
patients  and  their  families,  but  with  the  characters  and 
circumstances  of  great  numbers  of  their  neighbours:  of 
these  they  keep  a register.  It  is  their  common  experience, 
that  people,  sinking  down  by  inches  into  deeper  and  deeper 
poverty,  will  conceal  it,  even  from  them,  if  possible,  unto 
the  very  last  extremity. 

The  nurses  of  this  liospital  are  all  young, — ranging,  say, 
from  nineteen  to  four  and  twenty.  They  have  even  within 
these  narrow  limits,  what  many  well-endowed  hospitals 
would  not  give  them,  a comfortable  room  of  their  own  in 
which  to  take  their  meals.  It  is  a beautiful  truth,  that  in- 
terest in  the  children  and  sympathy  with  their  sorrows 
bind  these  young  women  to  their  places  far  more  strongly 
than  any  other  consideration  could.  The  best  skilled  of 
the  nurses  came  originally  from  a kindred  neighbourhood, 
almost  as  poor;  and  she  knew  how  much  the  work  was 
needed.  She  is  a fair  dressmaker.  The  hospital  cannot 
pay  her  as  many  pounds  in  the  year  as  there  are  months  in 
it;  and  one  day  the  lady  regarded  it  as  a duty  to  speak  to 
her  about  her  improving  her  prospects  and  following  her 
trade.  ^^No,”  she  said:  she  could  never  be  so  useful  or 
so  happy  elsewhere  any  more;  she  must  stay  among  the 
children.  And  she  stays.  One  of  the  nurses,  as  I passed 
her,  was  washing  a baby-boy.  Liking  her  pleasant  face, 
I stopped  to  speak  to  her  charge, — a common,  bullet- 
headed, frowning  charge  enough,  laying  hold  of  his  own 
nose  with  a slippery  grasp,  and  staring  very  solemnly  out 
of  a blanket.  The  melting  of  the  pleasant  face  into  de- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


321 


lighted  sjniles,  as  this  young  gentleman  gave  an  unexpected 
kick,  and  laughed  at  me,  was  almost  worth  my  previous 
pain. 

An  affecting  play  was  acted  in  Paris  years  ago,  called 
‘‘The  Children’s  Doctor.”  As  I parted  from  my  children’s 
doctor,  now  in  question,  I saw  in  his  easy  black  necktie,  in 
his  loose-buttoned  black  frock-coat,  in  his  pensive  face,  in 
the  flow  of  his  dark  hair,  in  his  eyelashes,  in  the  very  turn 
of  his  moustache,  the  exact  realisation  of  the  Paris  artist’s 
ideal  as  it  was  presented  on  the  stage.  But  no  romancer 
that  I know  of  has  had  the  boldness  to  prefigure  the  life 
and  home  of  this  young  husband  and  young  wife  in  the 
Children’s  Hospital  in  the  east  of  London. 

I came  away  from  Ratcliff  by  the  Stepney  railway  sta- 
tion to  the  terminus  at  Fenchurch  Street.  Any  one  who 
will  reverse  that  route  may  retrace  my  steps. 


XXXIII. 

A LITTLE  DINNER  IN  AN  HOUR. 

It  fell  out  on  a day  in  this  last  autumn,  that  I had  to  go 
down  from  London  to  a place  of  seaside  resort,  on  an  hour’s 
business,  accompanied  by  my  esteemed  friend  Bullfinch. 
Let  the  place  of  seaside  resort  be,  for  the  nonce,  called 
Namelesston. 

I had  been  loitering  about  Paris  in  very  hot  weather, 
pleasantly  breakfasting  in  the  open  air  in  the  garden  of 
the  Palais  Royal  or  the  Tuileries,  pleasantly  dining  in  the 
open  air  in  the  Elysian  Fields,  pleasantly  taking  my  cigar 
and  lemonade  in  the  open  air  on  the  Italian  Boulevard 
towards  the  small  hours  after  midnight.  Bullfinch — an 
excellent  man  of  business — had  summoned  me  back  across 
the  Channel,  to  transact  this  said  hour’s  business  at  Name- 
lesston; and  thus  it  fell  out  that  Bullfinch  and  I were  in 
a railway  carriage  together  on  our  way  to  Namelesston, 
each  with  his  return-ticket  in  his  waistcoat-pocket. 

Says  Bullfinch,  “I  have  a proposal  to  make.  Let  us 
dine  at  the  Temeraire.” 

I asked  Bullfinch,  did  he  recommend  the  Temeraire?  in- 

21 


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THE  UJN^COMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


asmuch  as  I had  not  been  rated  on  the  books  of  the  Teme- 
raire  for  many  years. 

Bullfinch  declined  to  accept  the  responsibility  of  recom- 
mending the  Temeraire,  but  on  the  whole  was  rather  san- 
guine about  it.  He  ''seemed  to  remember/'  Bullfinch 
said,  that  he  had  dined  well  there.  A plain  dinner,  but 
good.  Certainly  not  like  a Parisian  dinner  (here  Bullfinch 
obviously  became  the  prey  of  want  of  confidence),  but  of 
its  kind  very  fair. 

I appeal  to  Bullfinch's  intimate  knowledge  of  my  wants 
and  ways  to  decide  whether  I was  usually  ready  to  be 
pleased  with  any  dinner,  or— for  the  matter  of  that— with 
anything  that  was  fair  of  its  kind  and  really  what  it 
claimed  to  be.  Bullfinch  doiug  me  the  honour  to  respond 
in  the  affirmative,  I agreed  to  ship  myself  as  an  able 
trencherman  on  board  the  Temeraire. 

"N'ow,  our  plan  shall  be  this,"  says  Bullfinch,  with  his 
forefinger  at  his  nose.  "As  soon  as  we  get  to  :^ameless- 
ton,  we'll  drive  straight  to  the  Temeraire,  and  order  a lit- 
tle dinner  in  an  hour.  And  as  we  shall  not  have  more 
than  enough  time  in  which  to  dispose  of  it  comfortably, 
what  do  you  say  to  giving  the  house  the  best  opportunities 
of  serving  it  hot  and  quickly  by  dining  in  the  coffee- 
room?  " 

What  I had  to  say  was.  Certainly.  Bullfinch  (who  is 
by  nature  of  a hopeful  constitution)  then  began  to  babble 
of  green  geese.  But  I checked  him  in  that  Falstaffian 
vein,  urging  considerations  of  time  and  cookery. 

In  due  sequence  of  events  we  drove  up  to  the  Temeraire, 
and  alighted.  A youth  in  livery  received  us  on  the  door- 
step. "Looks  well,"  said  Bullfinch  confidentially.  And 
then  aloud,  " Coffee-room ! " 

The  youth  in  livery  (now  perceived  to  be  mouldy)  con- 
ducted us  to  the  desired  haven,  and  was  enjoined  by  Bull- 
finch to  send  the  waiter  at  once,  as  we  wished  to  order  a 
little  dinner  in  an  hour.  Then  Bullfinch  and  I waited  for 
the  waiter,  until,  the  waiter  continuing  to  wait  in  some 
unknown  and  invisible  sphere  of  action,  we  rang  for  the 
waiter;  which  ring  produced  the  waiter,  who  announced 
himself  as  not  the  waiter  who  ought  to  wait  upon  us,  and 
who  didn't  wait  a moment  longer. 

So  Bullfinch  approached  the  coffee-room  door,  and  melodi- 
ously  pitching  his  voice  into  a bar  where  two  young  ladies 


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323 


were  keeping  the  books  of  the  Temeraire,  apologetically  ex- 
plained that  we  wished  to  order  a little  dinner  in  an  hour, 
and  that  we  were  debarred  from  the  execution  of  our  in- 
olfensive  purpose  by  consignment  to  solitude. 

Hereupon  one  of  the  young  ladies  rang  a bell,  which  re- 
produced— at  the  bar  this  time — the  waiter  who  was  not 
the  waiter  who  ought  to  wait  upon  us;  that  extraordinary 
man,  whose  life  seemed  consumed  in  waiting  upon  people 
to  say  that  he  wouldn^t  wait  upon  them,  repeated  his 
former  protest  with  great  indignation,  and  retired. 

Bullfinch,  with  a fallen  countenance,  was  about  to  say 
to  me,  ^^This  won’t  do,”  when  the  waiter  who  ought  to 
wait  upon  us  left  off  keeping  us  waiting  at  last.  Waiter,” 
said  Bullfinch  piteously,  we  have  been  a long  time  wait- 
ing.” The  waiter  who  ought  to  wait  upon  us  laid  the 
blame  upon  the  waiter  who  ought  not  to  wait  upon  us,  and 
said  it  was  all  that  waiter’s  fault. 

‘‘We  wish,”  said  Bullfinch,  much  depressed,  “to  order 
a little  dinner  in  an  hour.  What  can  we  have?  ” 

“ What  would  you  like  to  have,  gentlemen?  ” 

Bullfinch,  with  extreme  mournfulness  of  speech  and 
action,  and  with  a forlorn  old  fly-blown  bill  of  fare  in  his 
hand  which  the  waiter  had  given  him,  and  which  was  a 
sort  of  general  manuscript  index  to  any  cookery-book  you 
please,  moved  the  previous  question. 

We  could  have  mock- turtle  soup,  a sole,  curry,  and  roast 
duck.  Agreed.  At  this  table  by  this  window.  Punctu- 
ally in  an  hour. 

I had  been  feigning  to  look  out  of  this  window;  but  I 
had  been  taking  note  of  the  crumbs  on  all  the  tables,  the 
dirty  table-cloths,  the  stuffy,  soupy,  airless  atmosphere, 
the  stale  leavings  everywhere  about,  the  deep  gloom  of  the 
waiter  who  ought  to  wait  upon  us,  and  the  stomach-ache 
with  which  a lonely  traveller  at  a distant  table  in  a corner 
was  too  evidently  afflicted.  I now  pointed  out  to  Bullfinch 
the  alarming  circumstance  that  this  traveller  had  dined. 
We  hurriedly  debated  whether,  without  infringement  of 
good  breeding,  we  could  ask  him  to  disclose  if  he  had  par- 
taken of  mock- turtle,  sole,  curry,  or  roast  duck?  We  de- 
cided that  the  thing  could  not  be  politely  done,  and  we  had* 
set  our  own  stomachs  on  a cast,  and  they  must  stand  the 
hazard  of  the  die. 

I hold  phrenology,  within  certain  limits,  to  be  true;  I 


324 


TIIE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


am  much  of  the  same  mind  as  to  the  subtler  expressions  of 
the  hand;  I hold  physiognomy  to  be  infallible;  though  all 
these  sciences  demand  rare  qualities  in  the  student.  But 
I also  hold  that  there  is  no  more  certain  index  to  personal 
character  than  the  condition  of  a set  of  casters  is  to  the 
character  of  any  hotel.  Knowing,  and  having  often  tested 
this  theory  of  mine,  Bullfinch  resigned  himself  to  the 
worst,  when,  laying  aside  any  remaining  veil  of  disguise, 
I held  up  before  him  in  succession  the  cloudy  oil  and  furry 
vinegar,  the  clogged  cayenne,  the  dirty  salt,  the  obscene 
dregs  of  soy,  and  the  anchovy  sauce  in  a flannel  waistcoat 
of  decomposition. 

We  went  out  to  transact  our  business.  So  inspiriting 
was  the  relief  of  passing  into  the  clean  and  windy  streets 
of  Kamelesston  from  the  heavy  and  vapid  closeness  of  the 
coffee-room  of  the  Temeraire,  that  hope  began  to  revive 
within  us.  We  began  to  consider  that  perhaps  the  lonely 
traveller  had  taken  physic,  or  done  something  injudicious 
to  bring  his  complaint  on.  Bullfinch  remarked  that  he 
thought  the  waiter  who  ought  to  wait  upon  us  had  bright- 
ened a little  when  suggesting  curry;  and  although  I knew 
hini  to  have  been  at  that  moment  the  express  image  of  de- 
spair, I allowed  myself  to  become  elevated  in  spirits.  As 
we  walked  by  the  softly-lapping  sea,  all  the  notabilities  of 
Namelesston,  who  are  for  ever  going  up  and  down  with  the 
changelessness  of  the  tides,  passed  to  and  fiH)  in  procession. 
Pretty  girls  on  horseback,  and  with  detested  riding-masters; 
pretty  girls  on  foot;  mature  ladies  in  hats, — spectacled, 
strong-minded,  and  glaring  at  the  opposite  or  weaker  sex. 
The  Stock  Exchange  was  strongly  represented,  eJerusalem 
was  strongly  represented,  the  bores  of  the  prosier  London 
clubs  were  strongly  represented.  Fortune-hunters  of  all 
denominations  were  there,  from  hirsute  insolvency,  in  a 
curricle,  to  closely-buttoned  swindlery  in  doubtful  boots,  on 
the  sharp  look-out  for  any  likely  young  gentleman  disposed 
to  play  a game  at  billiards  round  the  corner.  Masters  of 
languages,  their  lessons  finished  for  the  day,  were  going  to 
their  homes  out  of  sight  of  the  sea;  mistresses  of  accom- 
plishments, carrying  small  portfolios,  likewise  tripped 
homeward;  pairs  of  scholastic  pupils,  two  and  two,  went 
languidly  along  the  beach,  surveying  the  face  of  the  waters 
as  if  waiting  for  some  Ark  to  come  and  take  them  off. 
Spectres  of  the  George  the  Fourth  days  flitted  unsteadily 


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325 


among  the  crowd,  bearing  the  outward  semblance  of  ancient 
dandies,  of  every  one  of  whom  it  might  be  said,  not  that 
he  had  one  leg  in  the  grave,  or  both  legs,  but  that  he  was 
steeped  in  grave  to  the  summit  of  his  high  shirt-collar,  and 
had  nothing  real  about  him  but  his  bones.  Alone  station- 
ary in  the  midst  of  all  the  movements,  the  Namelesston 
boatmen  leaned  against  the  railings  and  yawned,  and  looked 
out  to  sea,  or  looked  at  the  moored  fishing-boats  and  at 
nothing.  Such  is  the  unchanging  manner  of  life  with  this 
nursery  of  our  hardy  seamen;  and  very  dry  nurses  they 
are,  and  always  wanting  something  to  drink.  The  only 
two  nautical  personages  detached  from  the  railing  were  the 
two  fortunate  possessors  of  the  celebrated  monstrous  un- 
known barking-fish,  just  caught  (frequently  just  caught  off 
Namelesston),  who  carried  him  about  in  a hamper,  and 
pressed  the  scientific  to  look  in  at  the  lid. 

The  sands  of  the  hour  had  all  run  out  when  we  got  back 
to  the  Temeraire.  Says  Bullfinch,  then,  to  the  youth  in 
livery,  with  boldness,  Lavatory ! ” 

When  we  arrived  at  the  family  vault  with  a skylight, 
which  the  youth  in  livery  presented  as  the  institution 
sought,  we  had  already  whisked  off  our  cravats  and  coats; 
but  finding  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  an  evil  smell,  and 
no  linen  but  two  crumpled  towels  newly  damp  from  the 
countenances  of  two  somebody  elses,  we  put  on  our  cravats 
and  coats  again,  and  fled  unwashed  to  the  coffee-room. 

There  the  waiter  who  ought  to  wait  upon  us  had  set  forth 
our  knives  and  forks  and  glasses,  on  the  cloth  whose  dirty 
acquaintance  we  had  already  had  the  pleasure  of  making, 
and  which  we  were  pleased  to  recognise  by  the  familiar  ex- 
pression of  its  stains.  And  now  there  occurred  the  truly 
surprising  phenomenon,  that  the  waiter  who  ought  not  to 
wait  upon  us  swooped  down  upon  us,  clutched  our  loaf  of 
bread,  and  vanished  with  the  same. 

Bullfinch,  with  distracted  eyes,  was  following  this  unac- 
countable figure  ‘^out  at  the  portal,’’  like  the  ghost  in  Ham- 
let, when  the  waiter  who  ought  to  wait  upon  us  jostled 
against  it,  carrying  a tureen. 

‘‘  Waiter!”  said  a severe  diner,  lately  finished,  perusing 
his  bill  fiercely  through  his  eye-glass. 

The  waiter  put  down  our  tureen  on  a remote  side-table, 
and  went  to  see  what  was  amiss  in  this  new  direction 
“ This  is  not  right,  you  know,  waiter.  Look  here ! here’s 


82G 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


yesterday’s  sherry,  one  and  eightpence,  and  here  we  are 
again,  two  shillings.  And  what  does  sixpence  mean?  ” 

So  far  from  knowing  what  sixpence  meant,  the  waiter 
protested  that  he  didn’t  know  what  anything  meant.  He 
wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  clammy  brow,  and  said  it 
was  impossible  to  do  it,— not  particularising  what,— and 
the  kitchen  was  so  far  off. 

“Take  the  bill  to  the  bar,  and  get  it  altered,”  said  Mr. 
Indignation  Cocker,  so  to  call  him. 

The  waiter  took  it,  looked  intensely  at  it,  didn’t  seem  to 
like  the  idea  of  taking  it  to 'the  bar,  and  submitted,  as  a new 
light  upon  the  case,  that  perhaps  sixpence  meant  sixpence. 

“ I tell  you  again,”  said  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker,  “ here’s 
yesterday’s  sherry— can’t  you  see  it?— one  and  eightpence, 
and  here  we  are  again,  two  shillings.  V\^hat  do  you  make 
of  one  and  eightpence  and  two  shillings?  ” 

Totally  unable  to  make  anything  of  one  and  eightpence 
and  two  shillings,  the  waiter  went  out  to  try  if  anybody  else 
could;  merely  casting  a helpless  backward  glance  at  Bull- 
finch, in  acknowledgment  of  his  pathetic  entreaties  for  our 
soup  tureen.  After  a pause,  during  which  Mr.  Indignation 
Cocker  read  a newspaper  and  coughed  defiant  coughs.  Bull- 
finch arose  to  get  the  tureen,  when  the  waiter  reappeared 
and  brought  it,— dropping  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker’s  altered 
bill  on  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker’s  table  as  he  came  along. 

“It’s  quite  impossible  to  do  it,  gentlemen,”  murmured 
the  waiter;  “and  the  kitchen  is  so  far  off.” 

“Well,  you  don’t  keep  the  house;  it’s  not  your  fault,  we 
suppose.  Bring  some  sherry.” 

“Waitp!”  from  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker,  with  a new 
and  burning  sense  of  injury  upon  him. 

The  waiter,  arrested  on  his  way  to  our  sherry,  stopped 
short,  and  came  back  to  see  what  was  wrong  now. 

“ Will  you  look  here?  This  is  worse  than  before.  Do 
you  understand?  Here’s  yesterday’s  sherry,  one  and  eight- 
pence,  and  here  we  are  again  two  shillings.  And  what  the 
devil  does  ninepence  mean?  ” 

This  new  portent  utterly  confounded  the  waiter.  He 
wrung  his  napkin,  and  mutely  appealed  to  the  ceiling. 

“Waiter,  fetch  that  sherry,”  says  Bullfinch,  in  open 
wrath  and  revolt. 

“I  want  to  know,”  persisted  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker, 

“ the  meaning  of  ninepence.  I want  to  know  the  meaning 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER.  ^ 

of  sherry  one  and  eightpence  yesterday,  and  of  here  we  are 
again  two  shillings.  Send  somebody. 

The  distracted  waiter  got  out  of  the  room  on  pretext  of 
sending  somebody,  and  by  that  means  got  our  wine.  ^ But 
the  instant  he  appeared  with  our  decanter,  Mr.  Indigna- 
tion Cocker  descended  on  him  again. 

‘‘Waiter!’^ 

You  will  now  have  the  goodness  to  attend  to  our  din- 
ner, waiter,’^  said  Bullfinch,  sternly. 

I am  very  sorry,  but  it’s  quite  impossible  to  do  it,  gen- 
tlemen,” pleaded  the  waiter;  '‘and  the  kitchen ” 

"Waiter!”  said  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker. 

" — Is,”  resumed  the  waiter,  "so  far  off,  that ” 

"Waiter!”  persisted  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker,  "send 
somebody.” 

We  were  not  without  our  fears  that  the  waiter  rushed  out 
to  hang  himself;  and  we  were  much  relieved  by  his  fetch- 
ing somebody, — in  graceful,  flowing  skirts  and  with  a waist, 
— who  very  soon  settled  Mr.  Indignation  Cocker’s  business. 

"Oh!”  said  Mr.  Cocker,  with  his  fire  surprisingly 
quenched  by  this  apparition;  " I wished  to  ask  about  this 
bill  of  mine,  because  it  appears  to  me  that  there’s  a little 
mistake  here.  Let  me  show  you.  Here’s  yesterday’s 
sherry  one  and  eightpence,  and  here  we  are  again  two  shil- 
lings. And  how  do  you  explain  ninepence?  ” 

However  it  was  explained,  in  tones  too  soft  to  be  over- 
heard. Mr.  Cocker  was  heard  to  say  nothing  more  than 
" Ah-h-h-!  Indeed;  thank  you!  Yes,”  and  shortly  after- 
wards went  out,  a milder  man. 

The  lonely  traveller  with  the  stomach-ache  had  all  this 
time  suffered  severely,  drawing  up  a leg  now  and  then,  and 
sipping  hot  brandy-and- water  with  grated  ginger  in  it. 
When  we  tasted  our  (very)  mock- turtle  soup,  and  were  in- 
stantly seized  with  symptoms  of  some  disorder  simulating 
apoplexy,  and  occasioned  by  the  surcharge  of  nose  and 
brain  with  lukewarm  dish-water  holding  in  solution  sour 
flour,  poisonous  condiments,  and  (say)  seventy-five  per 
cent,  of  miscellaneous  kitchen  stuff  rolled  into  balls,  we 
were  inclined  to  trace  his  disorder  to  that  source.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  was  a silent  anguisn  upon  him  too 
strongly  resembling  the  results  established  within  ourselvee 
by  the  sherry,  to  be  discarded  from  alarmed  consideration. 
Again,  we  observed  him,  with  terror,  to  be  much  overcome 


J28  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 

by  our  sole’s  being  aired  in  a temporary  retreat  close  to 
him,  while  the  waiter  went  out  (as  we  conceived)  to  see 
his  friends.  And  when  the  curry  made  its  appearance  he 
suddenly  retired  in  great  disorder. 

In  fine,  for  the  uneatable  part  of  this  little  dinner  (as 
contradistiiiguished  from  the  undrinkable)  we  paid  only 
seven  shillings  and  sixpence  each.  And  Bullfinch  and  I 
agreed  unanimously,  that  no  such  ill-served,  ill-appointed, 
ill-cooked,  nasty  little  dinner  could  be  got  for  the  money 
anwyhere  else  under  the  sun.  With  that  comfort  to  our 
backs,  we  turned  them  on  the  dear  old  Temeraire,  the 
charging  Temeraire,  and  resolved  (in  the  Scotch  dialect) 
to  gang  nae  mair  to  the  flabby  Temeraire. 


XXXIV. 

MR.  BARLOW. 

A GREAT  reader  of  good  fiction  at  an  unusually  early  age, 
it  seems  to  me  as  though  I had  been  born  under  the  super- 
intendence of  the  estimable  but  terrific  gentleman  whose 
name  stands  at  the  head  of  my  present  reflections.  The 
instructive  monomaniac,  Mr.  Barlow,  will  be  remembered 
as  the  tutor  of  Master  Harry  Sandford  and  Master  Tommy 
Merton.  He  knew  everything,  and  didactically  improved 
all  sorts  of  occasions,  from  the  consumption  of  a plate  of 
cherries  to  the  contemplation  of  a starlight  night.  What 
youth  came  to  without  Mr.  Barlow  was  displayed  in  the 
history  of  Sandford  and  Merton,  by  the  example  of  a cer- 
tain awful  Master  Mash.  This  young  wretch  wore  buckles 
and  powder,  conducted  himself  with  insupportable  levity 
at  the  theatre,  had  no  idea  of  facing  a mad  bull  single- 
handed  (in  which  I think  him  less  reprehensible,  as  re- 
motely reflecting  my  own  character),  and  was  a frightful 
instance  of  the  enervating  effects  of  luxury  upon  the  human 
race. 

Strange  destiny  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Barlow,  to  go  down 
to  posterity  as  childhood’s  experience  of  a bore ! Immortal 
Mr.  Barlow,  boring  his  way  through  the  verdant  freshness 
of  ages ! 

My  personal  indictment  against  Mr.  Barlow  is  one  of 


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many  counts.  I will  proceed  to  set  forth  a few  of  the  in- 
juries he  has  done  me. 

In  the  first  place,  he  never  made  or  took  a joke.  This 
insensibility  on  Mr.  Barlow’s  part  not  only  cast  its  own 
gloom  over  my  boyhood,  but  blighted  even  the  sixpenny 
jest-books  of  the  time;  for,  groaning  under  a moral  spell 
constraining  me  to  refer  all  things  to  Mr.  Barlow,  I could 
. not  choose  but  ask  myself  in  a whisper  when  tickled  by  a 
printed  jest,  What  would  he  think  of  it?  What  would 
he  see  in  it?  ” The  point  of  the  jest  immediately  became 
a sting,  and  stung  my  conscience.  For  my  mind’s  eye  saw 
him  stolid,  frigid,  perchance  taking  from  its  shelf  some 
dreary  Greek  book,  and  translating  at  full  length  what 
some  dismal  sage  said  (and  touched  up  afterwards,  per- 
haps, for  publication),  when  he  banished  some  unlucky 
joker  from  Athens. 

The  incompatibility  of  Mr.  Barlow  with  all  other  por- 
tions of  my  young  life  but  himself,  the  adamantine  inadapt- 
ability of  the  man  to  my  favorite  fancies  and  amusements, 
is  the  thing  for  which  I hate  him  most.  What  right  had 
he  to  bore  his  way  into  my  Arabian  Nights?  Yet  he  did. 
He  was  always  hinting  doubts  of  the  veracity  of  Sinbad 
the  Sailor.  If  he  could  have  got  hold  of  the  Wonderful 
Lamp,  I knew  he  would  have  trimmed  it  and  lighted  it, 
and  delivered  a lecture  over  it  on  the  qualities  of  sperm-oil, 
with  a glance  at  the  whale  fisheries.  He  would  so  soon 
have  found  out — on  mechanical  principles — the  peg  in  the 
neck  of  the  Enchanted  Horse,  and  would  have  turned  it 
the  right  way  in  so  workmanlike  a manner,  that  the  horse 
could  never  have  got  any  height  into  the  air,  and  the  story 
couldn’t  have  been.  He  would  have  proved,  by  map  and 
compass,  that  there  was  no  such  kingdom  as  the  delightful 
kingdom  of  Casgar,  on  the  frontiers  of  Tartary.  He  would 
have  caused  that  hypocritical  young  prig  Harry  to  make  an 
experiment, — with  the  aid  of  a temporary  building  in  the 
garden  and  a dummy, — demonstrating  that  you  couldn’t  let 
a choked  hunchback  down  an  Eastern  chimney  with  a cord, 
and  leave  him  upright  on  the  hearth  to  terrify  the  sultan’s 
purveyor. 

The  golden  sounds  of  the  overture  to  the  first  metropoli- 
tan pantomime,  I remember,  were  alloyed  by  Mr.  Barlow. 
Click  click,  ting  ting,  bang  bang,  weedle  weedle  weedle, 
bang!  I recall  the  chilling  air  that  ran  across  my  frame 


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and  cooled  my  Lot  delight,  as  the  thought  occurred  to  me, 
“ This  would  never  do  for  Mr.  Barlow ! After  the  curtain 
drew  up,  dreadful  doubts  of  Mr.  Barlow^s  considering  the 
custunies  of  the  Nymphs  of  the  Nebula  as  being  sufficiently 
opaque,  obtruded  themselves  on  my  enjoyment.  In  the 
clown  I perceived  two  persons;  one  a fascinating  unac- 
countable creature  of  a hectic  complexion,  joyous  in  spirits 
though  feeble  in  intellect,  with  flashes  of  brilliancy;  the 
other  a pupil  for  Mr.  Barlow.  I thought  how  Mr.  Barlow 
would  secretly  rise  early  in  the  morning,  and  butter  the 
pavement  for  him^  and,  when  he  had  brought  him  down, 
would  look  severely  out  of  his  study  window  and  ask  him 
how  he  enjoyed  the  fun. 

I thought  how  Mr.  Barlow  would  heat  all  the  pokers  in  the 
house,  and  singe  him  with  the  whole  collection,  to  bring 
him  better  acquainted  with  the  properties  of  incandescent 
iron,  on  which  he  (Barlow)  would  fully  expatiate.  I pict- 
ured Mr.  Barlow’s  instituting  a comparison  between  the 
clown’s  conduct  at  his  studies, — drinking  up  the  ink,  lick- 
ing his  copy-book,  and  using  his  head  for  blotting-paper,— 
and  that  of  the  already  mentioned  young  prig  of  prigs, 
Harry^  sitting  at  the  Barlovian  feet,  sneakingly  pretending 
to  be  in  a rapture  of  youthful  knowledge.  I thought  how 
soon  Mr.  Barlow  would  smooth  the  clown’s  hair  down, 
instead  of  letting  it  stand  erect  in  three  tall  tufts;  and 
how,  after  a couple  of  years  or  so  with  Mr.  Barlow,  he 
would  keep  his  legs  close  together  when  he  walked,  and 
would  take  his  hands  out  of  his  big  loose  pockets,  and 
wouldn’t  have  a jump  left  in  him. 

That  I am  particularly  ignorant  what  most  things  in  the 
universe  are  made  of,  and  how  they  are  made,  is  another 
of  my  charges  against  Mr.  Barlow.  With  the  dread  upon 
me  of  developing  into  a Harry,  and  with  a further  dread 
iipon  me  of  being  Barlowed  if  I made  inquiries,  by  bring- 
ing down  upon  myself  a cold  shower-bath  of  explanations 
and  experiments,  I forebore  enlightenment  in  my  youth, 
and  became,  as  they  say  in  melodramas,  ^Hhe  wreck  you 
now  behold.”  That  I consorted  with  idlers  and  dunces  is 
another  of  the  melancholy  facts  for  which  I hold  Mr.  Bar- 
low  responsible.  That  pragmatical  prig,  Harry,  became 
so  detestable  in  my  sight,  that,  he  being  reported  studious 
in  the  South,  I would  have  fled  idle  to  the  extremest  Nortli. 
Better  to  learn  misconduct  from  a Master  Mash  than  sci- 


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331 


ence  and  statistics  from  a Sandford ! So  I took  the  path, 
which,  but  for  Mr.  Barlow,  I might  never  have  trodden. 
Thought  I,  with  a shudder,  ‘^Mr.  Barlow  is  a bore,  with 
an  immense  constructive  power  of  making  bores.  His 
prize  specimen  is  a bore.  He  seeks  to  make  a bore  of  me. 
That  knowledge  is  power  I am  not  prepared  to  gainsay; 
but,  with  Mr.  Barlow,  knowledge  is  power  to  bore.” 
Therefore  I took  refuge  in  the  caves  of  ignorance,  wherein 
I have  resided  ever  since,  and  which  are  still  my  private 
address. 

But  the  weightiest  charge  of  all  my  charges  against  Mr. 
Barlow  is,  that  he  still  walks  the  earth  in  various  disguises, 
seeking  to  make  a Tommy  of  me,  even  in  my  maturity. 
Irrepressible,  instructive  monomaniac,  Mr.  Barlow  hlls  my 
life  with  pitfalls,  and  lies  hiding  at  the  bottom  to  burst 
out  upon  me  when  I least  expect  him. 

A few  of  these  dismal  experiences  of  mine  shall  suffice. 

Knowing  Mr.  Barlow  to  have  invested  largely  in  the 
[moving  panorama  trade,  and  having  on  various  occasions 
identified  him  in  the  dark  with  a long  wand  in  his  hand, 
holding  forth  in  his  old  way  (made  more  appalling  in  this 
connection  by  his  sometimes  cracking  a piece  of  Mr.  Car- 
lyle’s own  Dead-Sea  fruit  in  mistake  for  a joke),  I system- 
atically shun  pictorial  entertainment  on  rollers.  Similarly, 
I should  demand  responsible  bail  and  guaranty  against  the 
appearance  of  Mr.  Barlow,  before  committing  myself  to  at- 
tendance at  any  assemblage  of  my  fellow-creatures  where 
a bottle  of  water  and  a note-book  were  conspicuous  ob- 
jects; for  in  either  of  those  associations,  I should  expressly 
expect  him.  But  such  is  the  designing  nature  of  the  man, 
that  he  steals  in  where  no  reasoning  precaution  or  previ- 
sion could  expect  him.  As  in  the  following  case : — 

Adjoining  the  Caves  of  Ignorance  is  a country  town.  In 
this  country  town  the  Mississippi  Momuses,  nine  in  num- 
ber, were  announced  to  appear  in  the  town-hall,  for  the 
general  delectation,  this  last  Christmas  week.  Knowing 
Mr.  Barlow  to  be  unconnected  with  the  Mississippi,  though 
holding  republican  opinions,  and  deeming  myself  secure,  I 
took  a stall.  My  object  was  to  hear  and  see  the  Mississippi 
Momuses  in  what  the  bills  described  as  their  ^^KationaL 
ballads,  plantation  break-downs,  nigger  part-songs,  choice 
conundrums,  sparkling  repartees,  &c.”  I found  the  nine 
dressed  alike,  in  the  black  coat  and  trousers,  white  waist- 


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coat,  very  large  shirt-front,  very  large  shirt-collar,  and  very 
large  white  tie  and  wristbands,  which  constitute  the  dress 
of  the  mass  of  the  African  race,  and  which  has  been  ob- 
served by  travellers  to  prevail  over  a vast  number  of  de- 
grees of  latitude.  All  the  nine  rolled  their  eyes  exceed- 
ingly, and  had  very  red  lips.  At  the  extremities  of  the 
curve  they  formed,  seated  in  their  chairs,  were  the  per- 
formers on  the  tambourine  and  bones.  The  centre  Momus, 
a black  of  melancholy  aspect  (who  inspired  me  with  a 
vague  uneasiness  for  which  I could  not  then  account),  per- 
formed on  a Mississippi  instrument  closely  resembling 
what  was  once  called  in  this  island  a hurdy-gurdy.  The 
Momuses  on  either  side  of  him  had  each  another  instrument 
peculiar  to  the  Father  of  Waters,  which  may  be  likened  to 
a stringed  weather-glass  held  upside  down.  There  were 
likewise  a little  flute  and  a violin.  All  went  well  for  a 
while,  and  we  had  had  several  sparkling  repartees  ex- 
changed between  the  performers  on  the  tambourine  and 
bones,  when  the  black  of  melancholy  aspect,  turning  to  the 
latter,  and  addressing  him  in  a deep  and  improving  voice 
as  Bones,  sir,”  delivered  certain  grave  remarks  to  him 
concerning  the  juveniles  present,  and  the  season  of  the 
year;  whereon  I perceived  that  I was  in  the  presence  of 
Mr.  Barlow — corked! 

Another  night — and  this  was  in  London — I attended  the 
representation  of  a little  comedy.  As  the  characters  were 
lifelike  (and  consequently  not  improving),  and  as  they  went 
upon  their  several  ways  and  designs  without  personally 
addressing  themselves  to  me,  I felt  rather  confident  of  com- 
ing through  it  without  being  regarded  as  Tommy,  the  more 
so,  as  we  were  clearly  getting  close  to  the  end.  But  I de- 
ceived myself.  All  of  a sudden,  apropos  of  nothing,  every- 
body concerned  came  to  a check  and  halt,  advanced  to  the 
footlights  in  a general  rally  to  take  dead  aim  at  me,  and 
brought  me  down  with  a moral  homily,  in  which  I detected 
the  dread  hand  of  Barlow. 

Nay,  so  intricate  and  subtle  are  the  toils  of  this  hunter, 
that  on  the  very  next  night  after  that,  I was  again  en- 
trapped, where  no  vestige  of  a spring  could  have  been  ap- 
prehended by  the  timidest.  It  was  a burlesque  that  I saw 
performed;  an  uncompromising  burlesque,  where  every- 
body concerned,  but  especially  the  ladies,  carried  on  at  a 
very  considerable  rate  indeed.  Most  prominent  and  active 


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333 


among  the  corps  of  performers  was  what  I took  to  be  (and 
she  really  gave  me  very  fair  opportunities  of  coming  to  a 
right  conclusion)  a young  lady  of  a pretty  figure.  She  was 
dressed  as  a picturesque  young  gentleman,  whose  panta- 
loons had  been  cut  off  in  their  infancy;  and  she  had  very 
neat  knees  and  very  neat  satin  boots.  Immediately  after 
singing  a slang  song  and  dancing  a slang  dance,  this  engag- 
ing figure  approached  the  fatal  lamps,  and,  bending  over 
them,  delivered  in  a thrilling  voice  a random  eulogium  on, 
and  exhortation  to  pursue,  the  virtues.  Great  Heaven ! ’’ 
was  my  exclamation;  Barlow ! 

There  is  still  another  aspect  in  which  Mr.  Barlow  per- 
petually insists  on  my  sustaining  the  character  of  Tommy, 
which  is  more  unendurable  yet,  on  account  of  its  extreme 
aggressiveness.  For  the  purposes  of  a review  or  newspa- 
per, he  will  get  up  an  abstruse  subject  with  infinite  pains, 
will  Barlow,  utterly  regardless  of  the  price  of  midnight  oil, 
and  indeed  of  everything  else,  save  cramming  himself  to 
the  eyes. 

But  mark.  When  Mr.  Barlow  blows  his  information  off, 
he  is  not  contented  with  having  rammed  it  home,  and  dis- 
charged it  upon  me.  Tommy,  his  target,  but  he  pretends 
that  he  was  always  in  possession  of  it,  and  made  nothing 
of  it, — that  he  imbibed  it  with  mother^  s milk, — and  that 
I,  the  wretched  Tommy,  am  most  abjectly  behindhand  in 
not  having  done  the  same.  I ask,  wliy  is  Tommy  to  be 
always  the  foil  of  Mr.  Barlow  to  this  extent?  What  Mr. 
Barlow  had  not  the  slightest  notion  of  himself,  a week  ago, 
it  surely  cannot  be  any  very  heavy  backsliding  in  me  not 
to  have  at  my  fingers’  ends  to-day ! And  yet  Mr.  Barlow 
systematically  carries  it  over  me  with  a high  hand,  and 
will  tauntingly  ask  me,  in  his  articles,  whether  it  is  pos- 
sible that  I am  not  aware  that  every  school- boy  knows  that 
the  fourteenth  turning  on  the  left  in  the  steppes  of  Russia 
will  conduct  to  such  and  such  a wandering  tribe?  with 
other  disparaging  questions  of  like  nature.  So,  when  Mr. 
Barlow  addresses  a letter  to  any  journal  as  a volunteer  cor- 
respondent (which  I frequently  find  him  doing),  he  will 
previously  have  gotten  somebody  to  tell  him  some  tremen- 
dous technicality,  and  will  write  in  the  coolest  manner,' 
^^ISTow,  sir,  I may  assume  that  every  reader  of  your  col- 
umns, possessing  average  information  and  intelligence, 
knows  as  well  as  I do  that  ” — say  that  the  draught  from 


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the  touch-hole  of  a cannon  of  such  a calibre  bears  such  a 
proportion  in  the  nicest  fractions  to  the  draught  from  the 
muzzle;  or  some  equally  familiar  little  fact.  But  what- 
ever it  is,  be  certain  that  it  always  tends  to  the  exaltation 
of  Mr.  Barlow,  and  the  depression  of  his  enforced  and  en- 
slaved pupil. 

Mr.  Barlow’s  knowledge  of  my  own  pursuits  I find  to  be 
so  profound,  that  my  own  knowledge  of  them  becomes  as 
nothing.  Mr.  Barlow  (disguised  and  bearing  a feigned 
name,  but  detected  by  me)  has  occasionally  taught  me,  in 
a sonorous  voice,  from  end  to  end  of  a long  dinner-table, 
trifles  that  I took  the  liberty  of  teaching  him  five-and- 
twenty  years  ago.  My  closing  article  of  impeachment 
against  Mr.  Barlow  is,  that  he  goes  out  to  breakfast,  goes 
out  to  dinner,  goes  out  everywhere,  high  and  low,  and  that 
he  WILL  preach  to  me,  and  that  I can’t  get  rid  of  him. 
He  makes  of  me  a Promethean  Tommy,  bound;  and  he  is 
the  vulture  that  gorges  itself  upon  the  liver  of  my  unin- 
structed mind. 


XXXV. 

ON  AN  AMATEUR  BEAT. 

It  is  one  of  my  fancies,  that  even  my  idlest  walk  must 
always  have  its  appointed  destination.  I set  myself  a task 
before  I leave  my  lodging  in  Covent-garden  on  a street  ex- 
pedition, and  should  no  more  think  of  altering  my  route  by 
the  way,  or  turning  back  and  leaving  a part  of  it  un- 
achieved, than  I should  think  of  fraudulently  violating  an 
agreement  entered  into  with  somebody  else.  The  other 
day,  finding  myself  under  this  kind  of  obligation  to  pro- 
ceed to  Limehouse,  I started  punctually  at  noon,  in  com- 
pliance with  the  terms  of  the  contract  with  myself  to  which 
my  good  faith  was  pledged. 

On  such  an  occasion,  it  is  my  habit  to  regard  my  walk 
as  my  beat,  and  myself  as  a higher  sort  of  police-constable 
doing  duty  on  the  same.  There  is  many  a ruffian  in  the 
streets  whom  I mentally  collar  and  clear  out  of  them,  who 
would  see  mighty  little  of  London,  T can  tell  him,  if  I 
could  deal  with  him  physically. 

Issuing  forth  upon  this  very  beat,  and  following  with  my 


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335 


eyes  three  hulking  garroters  on  their  way  home, — which 
home  I could  confidently  swear  to  be  within  so  many  yards 
of  Drury  Lane,  in  such  a narrow  and  restricted  direction 
(though  they  live  in  their  lodging  quite  as  undisturbed  as  I 
in  mine), — I went  on  duty  with  a consideration  which  I re- 
spectfully offer  to  the  new  Chief  Commissioner, — in  whom 
I thoroughly  confide  as  a tried  and  efficient  public  servant. 
How  often  (thought  I)  have  I been  forced  to  swallow,  in 
police-reports,  the  intolerable  stereotyped  pill  of  nonsense, 
how  that  the  police-constable  informed  the  worthy  magis- 
trate how  that  the  associates  of  the  prisoner  did,  at  that 
present  speaking,  dwell  in  a street  or  court  which  no  man 
dared  go  down,  and  how  that  the  worthy  magistrate  had 
heard  of  the  dark  reputation  of  such  street  or  court,  and 
how  that  our  readers  would  doubtless  remember  that  it  was 
always  the  same  street  or  court  which  was  thus  edifyingly 
discoursed  about,  say  once  a fortnight. 

Now,  suppose  that  a Chief  Commissioner  sent  round  a 
j circular  to  every  division  of  police  employed  in  London,  re- 
quiring instantly  the  names  in  all  districts  of  all  such  rnucl  .- 
puffed  streets  or  courts  which  no  man  durst  go  down;  and 
suppose  that  in  such  circular  he  gave  plain  warning,  If 
those  places  really  exist,  they  are  a proof  of  police  ineffi- 
ciency which  I mean  to  punish;  and  if  they  do  not  exist, 
but  are  a conventional  fiction,  then  they  are  a proof  of  lazy 
tacit  police  connivance  with  professional  crime,  which  I 
also  mean  to  punish” — what  then?  Fictions  or  realities, 
could  they  survive  the  touchstone  of  this  atom  of  common 
sense?  To  tell  us  in  open  court,  until  it  has  become  as 
trite  a feature  of  news  as  the  great  gooseberry,  that  a costly 
police-system  such  as  was  never  before  heard  of,  has  left 
in  London,  in  the  days  of  steam  and  gas  and  photographs 
of  thieves  and  electric  telegraphs,  the  sanctuaries  and  stews 
of  the  Stuarts ! Why,  a parity  of  practice,  in  all  depart- 
ments, would  bring  back  the  Plague  in  two  summers,  and 
the  Druids  in  a century ! 

Walking  faster  under  my  share  of  this  public  injury,  I 
overturned  a wretched  little  creature,  who,  clutching  at  the 
rags  of  a pair  of  trousers  with  one  of  its  claws,  and  at  its 
ragged  hair  with  the  other,  pattered  with  bare  feet  over  the, 
muddy  stones.  I stopped  to  raise  and  succour  this  poor 
weeping  wretch,  and  fifty  like  it,  but  of  both  sexes,  were 
about  me  in  a moment,  begging,  tumbling,  fighting,  clam- 


330  THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 

ouriiig,  yelling,  shivering  in  their  nakedness  and  hunger. 
The  piece  of  money  I had  put  into  the  claw  of  the  child  I 
had  overturned  was  clawed  out  of  it,  and  was  again  clawed 
out  of  that  wolfish  gripe,  and  again  out  of  that,  and  soon  I 
had  no  notion  in  what  part  of  the  obscene  scuffle  in  the 
mud,  of  rags  and  legs  and  arms  and  dirt,  the  money  might 
be.  In  raising  the  child,  I had  drawn  it  aside  out  of  the 
main  thoroughfare,  and  this  took  place  among  some  wooden 
hoardings  and  barriers  and  ruins  of  demolished  buildings, 
hard  by  Temple  Bar. 

Unexpectedly,  from  among  them  emerged  a genuine  po- 
lice constable,  before  whom  the  dreadful  brood  dispersed  in 
various  directions,  he  making  feints  and  darts  in  this  direc- 
tion and  in  that,  and  catching  nothing.  When  all  were 
frightened  away,  he  took  off  his  hat,  pulled  out  a handker- 
chief from  it,  wiped  his  heated  brow,  and  restored  the 
handkerchief  and  hat  to  their  places,  with  the  air  of  a man 
who  had  discharged  a great  moral  duty, — as  indeed  he  had, 
in  doing  what  was  set  down  for  him.  I looked  at  him,  and 
I looked  about  at  the  disorderly  traces  in  the  mud,  and  I 
thought  of  the  drops  of  rain  and  the  footprints  of  an  extinct 
creature,  hoary  ages  upon  ages  old,  that  geologists  have 
identified  on  the  face  of  a clift;  and  this  speculation  came 
over  me : If  this  mud  could  petrify  at  this  moment,  and 
could  lie  concealed  here  for  ten  thousand  years,  I wonder 
whether  the  race  of  men  then  to  be  our  successors  on  the 
earth  could,  from  these  or  any  marks,  by  the  utmost  force 
of  the  human  intellect,  unassisted  by  tradition,  deduce  such 
an  astounding  inference  as  the  existence  of  a polished  state 
of  society  that  bore  with  the  public  savagery  of  neglected 
children  in  the  streets  of  its  capital  city,  and  was  proud  of 
its  power  by  sea  and  land,  and  never  used  its  power  to 
seize  and  save  them ! 

After  this,  when  I came  to  the  Old  Bailey  and  glanced 
up  it  towards  Newgate,  I found  that  the  prison  had  an  in- 
consistent look.  There  seemed  to  be  some  unlucky  incon- 
sistency in  the  atmosphere  that  day;  for  though  the  propor- 
tions of  St.  PauUs  Cathedral  are  very  beautiful,  it  had  an 
air  of  being  somewhat  out  of  drawing,  in  my  eyes.  I felt 
as  though  the  cross  were  too  high  up,  and  perched  upon  the 
intervening  golden  ball  too  far  away. 

Facing  eastward,  I left  behind  me  Smithfield  and  Old 
Bailey, — fire  and  fagot,  condemned  hold,  public  hanging. 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


337 


whipping  through  the  city  at  the  cart-tail,  pillory,  brand- 
ing-iron, and  other  beautiful  ancestral  landmarks,  which 
rude  hands  have  rooted  up,  without  bringing  the  stars  quite 
down  upon  us  as  yet, — and  went  my  way  upon  my  beat, 
noting  how  oddly  characteristic  neighbourhoods  are  divided 
from  one  another,  hereabout,  as  though  by  an  invisible  line 
across  the  way.  Here  shall  cease  the  bankers  and  the 
money-changers;  here  shall  begin  the  shipping  interest  and 
the  nautical-instrument  shops;  here  shall  follow  a scarcely 
perceptible  flavouring  of  groceries  and  drugs;  here  shall 
come  a strong  infusion  of  butchers;  now,  small  hosiers 
shall  be  in  the  ascendant;  henceforth,  everything  exposed 
for  sale  shall  have  its  ticketed  price  attached.  All  this  as 
if  specially  ordered  and  appointed. 

A single  stride  at  Houndsditch  Church,  no  wider  than 
sufiiced  to  cross  the  kennel  at  the  bottom  of  the  Canon- 
gate,  which  the  debtors  in  Holyrood  sanctuary  were  wont 
to  relieve  their  minds  by  skipping  over,  as  Scott  relates, 

I and  standing  in  delightful  daring  of  catchpoles  on  the  free 
side, — a single  stride,  and  everything  is  entirely  changed 
in  grain  and  character.  West  of  the  stride,  a table,  or  a 
chest  of  drawers  on  sale,  shall  be  of  mahogany  and  French- 
polished;  east  of  the  stride,  it  shall  be  of  deal,  smeared 
with  a cheap  counterfeit  resembling  lip-salve.  West  of  the 
stride,  a penny  loaf  or  bun  shall  be  compact  and  self-con- 
tained; east  of  the  stride,  it  shall  be  of  a sprawling  and 
splay-footed  character,  as  seeking  to  make  more  of  itself 
for  the  money.  My  beat  lying  round  by  Whitechapel 
Church,  and  the  adjacent  sugar-refineries,-  -great  buildings, 
tier  upon  tier,  that  have  the  appearance  of  being  nearly  re- 
lated to  the  dock- warehouses  at  Liverpool, — I turned  off  to 
my  right,  and,  passing  round  the  awkward  corner  on  my 
left,  came  suddenly  on  an  apparition  familiar  to  London 
streets  afar  off. 

What  London  peripatetic  of  these  times  has  not  seen  the 
woman  who  has  fallen  forward,  double,  through  some  affec- 
tion of  the  spine,  and  whose  head  has  of  late  taken  a turn 
to  one  side,  so  that  it  now  droops  over  the  back  of  one  of 
her  arms  at  about  the  wrist?  Who  does  not  know  her  staff, 
and  her  shawl,  and  her  basket,  as  she  gropes  her  way' 
along,  capable  of  seeing  nothing  but  the  pavement,  never 
begging,  never  stopping,  for  ever  going  somewhere  on  no 
business?  How  does  she  live,  whence  does  she  come, 
22 


338 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


whither  does  she  go,  and  why?  I mind  the  time  when  her 
yellow  arms  were  naught  but  bone  and  parchment.  Slight 
changes  steal  over  her;  for  there  is  a shadowy  suggestion 
of  human  skin  on  them  now.  The  Strand  may  be  taken  as 
the  central  point  about  which  she  revolves  in  a half-mile 
orbit.  How  comes  she  so  far  east  as  this?  And  coming 
back  too ! Having  been  how  much  farther?  She  is  a rare 
spectacle  in  this  neighbourhood.  I receive  intelligent  in- 
formation to  this  effect  from  a dog  — a lop-sided  mongrel 
with  a foolish  tail,  plodding  along  with  his  tail  up,  and  his 
ears  pricked,  and  displaying  an  amiable  interest  in  the 
ways  of  his  fellow-men, —if  I may  be  allowed  the  expres- 
sion. After  pausing  at  a pork-shop,  he  is  jogging  east- 
ward like  myself,  with  a benevolent  countenance  and  a wa- 
tery mouth,  as  though  musing  on  the  many  excellences  of 
pork,  when  he  beholds  this  doubled-up  bundle  approaching. 
He  is  not  so  much  astonished  at  the  bundle  (though  amazed 
by  that),  as  the  circumstance  that  it  has  within  itself  the 
means  of  locomotion.  He  stops,  pricks  his  ears  higher, 
makes  a slight  point,  stares,  utters  a short,  low  growl,  and 
glistens  at  the  nose, — as  I conceive  with  terror.  The  bun- 
dle continuing  to  approach,  he  barks,  turns  tail,  and  is 
about  to  fly,  when,  arguing  with  himself  that  flight  is  not 
becoming  in  a dog,  he  turns,  and  once  more  faces  the  ad- 
vancing heap  of  clothes.  After  much  hesitation,  it  occurs 
to  him  that  there  may  be  a face  in  it  somewhere.  Des- 
perately resolving  to  undertake  the  adventure,  and  pursue 
the  inquiry,  he  goes  slowly  up  to  the  bundle,  goes  slowly 
round  it,  and  coming  at  length  upon  the  human  counte- 
nance down  there  where  never  human  countenance  should 
be,  gives  a yelp  of  horror,  and  flies  for  the  East  India 
Docks. 

Being  now  in  the  Commercial  Eoad  district  of  my  beat, 
and  bethinking  myself  that  Stepney  Station  is  near,  I 
quicken  my  pace  that  I may  turn  out  of  the  road  at  that 
point,  and  see  how  my  small  eastern  star  is  shining. 

The  Children’s  Hospital,  to  which  I gave  that  name,  is 
in  full  force.  All  its  beds  are  occupied.  There  is  a new 
face  on  the  bed  where  my  pretty  baby  lay,  and  that  sweet 
little  child  is  now  at  rest  for  ever.  Much  kind  sympathy 
has  been  here  since  my  former  visit,  and  it  is  good  to  see 
the  walls  profusely  garnished  with  dolls.  I wonder  what 
Poodles  may  think  of  them,  as  they  stretch  out  their  anus 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


339 


above  the  beds,  and  stare,  and  display  their  splendid 
dresses.  Poodles  has  a greater  interest  in  the  patients.  I 
find  him  making  the  round  of  the  beds,  like  a house-surgeon, 
attended  by  another  dog, — a friend, — who  appears  to  trot 
about  with  him  in  the  character  of  his  pupil  dresser. 
Poodles  is  anxious  to  make  me  known  to  a pretty  little  girl 
looking  wonderfully  healthy,  who  had  had  a leg  taken  off 
for  cancer  of  the  knee.  A difficult  operation.  Poodles  inti- 
mates, wagging  his  tail  on  the  counterpane,  but  perfectly 
mccessful,  as  you  see,  dear  sir!  The  patient,  patting 
Poodles,  adds  with  a smile,  The  leg  was  so  much  trouble 
:o  me,  that  I am  glad  it’s  gone.”  I never  saw  anything  in 
ioggery  finer  than  the  deportment  of  Poodles,  when  another 
ittle  girl  opens  her  mouth  to  show  a peculiar  enlargement 
)f  the  tongue.  Poodles  (at  that  time  on  a table,  to  be  on 
\ level  with  the  occasion)  looks  at  the  tongue  (with  his 
)wn  sympathetically  out)  so  very  gravely  and  knowingly, 
jihat  I feel  inclined  to  put  my  hand  in  my  waistcoat-pocket, 
ind  give  him  a guinea,  wrapped  in  paper. 

On  my  beat  again,  and  close  to  Limehouse  Church,  its 
termination,  I found  myself  near  to  certain  ‘^Lead-Mills.” 
Struck  by  the  name,  which  was  fresh  in  my  memory,  and 
inding  on  inquiry,  that  these  same  lead-mills  were  identi- 
ied  with  those  same  lead-mills  of  which  I made  mention 
vhen  I first  visited  the  East  London  Children’s  Hospital 
ind  its  neighbourhood  as  Uncommercial  Traveller,  I re- 
lolved  to  have  a look  at  them. 

Received  by  two  very  intelligent  gentlemen,  brothers, 
tnd  partners  with  their  father  in  the  concern,  and  who  tes- 
ified  every  desire  to  show  their  works  to  me  freely,  I went 
)ver  the  lead- mills.  The  purport  of  such  works  is  the 
jonversion  of  pig-lead  into  white-lead.  This  conversion  is 
)rought  about  by  the  slow  and  gradual  effecting  of  certain 
iuccessive  chemical  changes  in  the  lead  itself.  The  proc- 
esses are  picturesque  and  interesting, — the  most  so,  being 
he  burying  of  the  lead,  at  a certain  stage  of  preparation, 
n pots,  each  pot  containing  a certain  quantity  of  acid  be- 
ides,  and  all  the  pots  being  buried  in  vast  numbers,  in 
ayers,  under  tan,  for  some  ten  weeks. 

Hopping  up  ladders,  and  across  planks,  and  on  elevated 
)erches,  until  I was  uncertain  whether  to  liken  myself  to 
. bird  or  a bricklayer,  I became  conscious  of  standing  on 
lOthing  particular,  looking  down  into  one  of  a series  of 


340 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


large  cocklofts,  with  the  outer  day  peeping  in  through  the 
chinks  in  the  tiled  roof  above.  A number  of  women  were 
ascending  to,  and  descending  from,  this  cockloft,  each  car- 
rying on  the  upward  journey  a pot  of  prepared  lead  and 
acid,  for  deposition  under  the  smoking  tan.  When  one 
layer  of  pots  was  completely  filled,  it  was  carefully  covered 
in  with  planks,  and  those  were  carefully  covered  with  tan 
again,  and  then  another  layer  of  pots  was  begun  above; 
sufficient  means  of  ventilation  being  preserved  through 
wooden  tubes.  Going  down  into  the  cockloft  then  filling, 
I found  the  heat  of  the  tan  to  be  surprisingly  great,  and 
also  the  odour  of  the  lead  and  acid  to  be  not  absolutely  ex- 
quisite, though  I believe  not  noxious  at  that  stage.  In 
other  cocklofts,  where  the  pots  were  being  exhumed,  the 
heat  of  the  steaming  tan  was  much  greater,  and  the  smell 
was  penetrating  and  peculiar.  There  were  cocklofts  in  all 
stages;  full  and  empty,  half  filled  and  half  emptied; 
strong,  active  women  were  clambering  about  them  busily; 
and  the  whole  thing  had  rather  the  air  of  the  upper  part  of 
the  house  of  some  immensely  rich  old  Turk,  whose  faithful 
seraglio  were  hiding  his  money  because  the  sultan  or  the 
pasha  was  coming. 

As  is  the  case  wdth  most  pulps  or  pigments,  so  in  the  in- 
stance of  this  white-lead,  processes  of  stirring,  separating, 
washing,  grinding,  rolling,  and  pressing  succeed.  Some 
of  these  are  unquestionably  inimical  to  health,  the  danger 
arising  from  inhalation  of  particles  of  lead,  or  from  contact 
between  the  lead  and  the  touch,  or  both.  Against  these 
dangers,  I found  good  respirators  provided  (simply  made 
of  flannel  and  muslin,  so  as  to  be  inexpensively  renewed, 
and  in  some  instances  washed  with  scented  soap),  and 
gauntlet  gloves,  and  loose  gowns.  Everywhere,  there  was 
as  much  fresh  air  as  windows,  well  placed  and  opened,  could 
possibly  admit.  And  it  was  explained  that  the  precaution 
of  frequently  changing  the  women  employed  in  the  worst 
parts  of  the  work  (a  precaution  originating  in  their  own 
experience  or  apprehension  of  its  ill  effects)  was  found  sal- 
utary. They  had  a mysterious  and  singular  appearance, 
with  the  mouth  and  nose  covered,  and  the  loose  gown  on, 
and  yet  bore  out  the  simile  of  the  old  Turk  and  the  seraglio 
all  the  better  for  the  disguise. 

At  last  this  vexed  white-lead,  having  been  buried  and 
resuscitated,  and  heated  and  cooled  and  stirred,  and  sepa- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


341 


rated  and  washed  and  ground,  and  rolled  and  pressed,  is 
subjected  to  the  action  of  intense  fiery  heat.  A row  of 
women,  dressed  as  above  described,  stood,  let  us  say,  in  a 
large  stone  bakehouse,  passing  on  the  baking-dishes  as 
they  were  given  out  by  the  cooks,  from  hand  to  hand,  into 
the  ovens.  The  oven,  or  stove,  cold  as  yet,  looked  as  high 
‘ as  an  ordinary  house,  and  was  full  of  men  and  women  on 
temporary  footholds,  briskly  passing  up  and  stowing  away 
the  dishes.  The  door  of  another  oven,  or  stove,  about  to 
be  cooled  and  emptied,  was  opened  from  above,  for  the  un- 
commercial countenance  to  peer  down  into.  The  uncom- 
mercial countenance  withdrew  itself,  with  expedition  and 
a sense  of  suffocation,  from  the  dull-glowing  heat  and  the 
overpowering  smell.  On  the  whole,  perhaps  the  going 
into  these  stoves  to  work,  when  they  are  freshly  opened, 
may  be  the  worst  part  of  the  occupation. 

But  I made  it  out  to  be  indubitable  that  the  owners  of 
these  lead-mills  honestly  and  sedulously  try  to  reduce  the 
I dangers  of  the  occupation  to  the  lowest  point. 

A washing-place  is  provided  for  the  women  (I  thought 
there  might  have  been  more  towels),  and  a room  in  which 
'they  hang  their  clothes,  and  take  their  meals,  and  where 
they  have  a good  fire-range  and  fire,  and  a female  attend- 
ant to  help  them,  and  to  watch  that  they  do  not  neglect 
the  cleansing  of  their  hands  before  touching  their  food.  An 
experienced  medical  attendant  is  provided  for  them,  and 
any  premonitory  symptoms  of  lead-poisoning  are  carefully 
treated.  Their  teapots  and  such  things  were  set  out  on 
tables  ready  for  their  afternoon  meal,  when  I saw  their 
room;  and  it  had  a homely  look.  It  is  found  that  they 
bear  the  work  much  better  than  men : some  few  of  them 
have  been  at  it  for  years,  and  the  great  majority  of  those  I 
observed  were  strong  and  active.  On  the  other  hand,  it 
should  be  remembered  that  most  of  them  are  very  capri- 
cious and  irregular  in  their  attendance. 

' American  inventiveness  would  seem  to  indicate  that 
before  very  long  white-lead  may  be  made  entirely  by 
machinery.  The  sooner,  the  better.  In  the  meantime,  I 
parted  from  my  two  frank  conductors  over  the  mills,  by 
telling  them  that  they  had  nothing  there  to  be  concealed,  « 
and  nothing  to  be  blamed  for.  As  to  the  rest,  the  phi- 
loso])hy  of  the  matter  of  lead-poisoning  and  workpeople 
seems  to  me  to  have  been  pretty  fairly  summed  up  by  the 


342  the  uncommercial  TRAVELLER. 

Irishwoman  whom  I quoted  in  my  former  paper : Some  of 

them  gets  lead-pisoned  soon,  and  some  of  them  gets  lead- 
pisoned  later,  and  some,  but  not  many,  niver;  and  His  all 
according  to  the  constitooshun,  sur;  and  some  constitoo- 
shuns  is  strong  and  some  is  weak.’’ 

Retracing  my  footsteps  over  my  beat,  I went  off  duty. 


XXXVL 

A PLY-LEAP  IN  A LIPE. 

Once  upon  a time  (no  matter  when),  I was  engaged  in  a 
pursuit  (no  matter  what),  which  could  be  transacted  by 
myself  alone;  in  which  I could  have  no  help;  which  im- 
posed a constant  strain  on  the  attention,  memory,  observa- 
tion, and  physical  powers;  and  which  involved  an  almost 
fabulous  amount  of  change  of  place  and  rapid  railway  trav- 
elling. I had  followed  this  pursuit  through  an  exception- 
ally trying  winter  in  an  always  trying  climate,  and  had  re- 
sumed it  in  England  after  but  a brief  repose.  Thus  it  came 
to  be  prolonged  until,  at  length — and,  as  it  seemed,  all  of 
a sudden — it  so  wore  me  out  that  I could  not  rely,  with  my 
usual  cheerful  confidence,  upon  myself  to  achieve  the  con- 
stantly recurring  task,  and  began  to  feel  (for  the  first  time 
in  my  life)  giddy,  jarred,  shaken,  faint,  uncertain  of  voice 
and  sight  and  tread  and  touch,  and  dull  of  spirit.  The 
medical  advice  I sought  within  a few  hours,  was  given  in 
two  words:  Instant  rest.”  Being  accustomed  to  observe 

myself  as  curiously  as  if  I were  another  man,  and  knowing 
the  advice  to  meet  my  only  need,  I instantly  halted  in  the 
pursuit  of  which  I speak,  and  rested. 

My  intention  was,  to  interpose,  as  it  were,  a fly-leaf  in 
the  book  of  my  life,  in  which  nothing  should  be  written 
from  without  for  a brief  season  of  a few  weeks.  But  some 
very  singular  experiences  recorded  themselves  on  this  same 
fly-leaf,  and  I am  going  to  relate  them  literally,  I repeat 
the  word  : literally  : 

My  first  odd  experience  was  of  the  remarkable  coinci- 
dence between  my  case,  in  the  general  mind,  and  one  Mr. 
Merdle’s  as  I find  it  recorded  in  a work  of  fiction  called 
Little  Dorrit.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Merdle  was  a swindler, 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


343 


forger,  and  thief,  and  my  calling  had  been  of  a less  harm- 
ful (and  less  remunerative)  nature;  but  it  was  all  one  for 
that. 

Here  is  Mr.  Merdle’s  case : 

At  first,  he  was  dead  of  all  the  diseases  that  ever  were 
known,  and  of  several  bran-new  maladies  invented  with  the 
speed  of  Light  to  meet  the  demand  of  the  occasion.  He 
had  concealed  a dropsy  from  infancy,  he  had  inherited  a 
large  estate  of  water  on  the  chest  from  his  grandfather,  he 
had  had  an  operation  performed  upon  him  every  morning 
of  his  life  for  eighteen  years,  he  had  been  subject  to  the 
explosion  of  important  veins  in  his  body  after  the  manner 
of  fireworks,  he  had  had  something  the  matter  with  his 
lungs,  he  had  had  something  the  matter  with  his  heart,  he 
' had  had  something  the  matter  with  his  brain.  Five  hun- 
dred people  who  sat  d own  to  breakfast  entirely  uninformed 
on  the  whole  subject,  believed  before  they  had  done  break- 
' fast,  that  they  privately  and  personally  knew  Physician  to 
have  said  to  Mr.  Merdle,  ^You  must  expect  to  go  out,  some 
day,  like  the  snuff  of  a candle;  ' and  that  they  knew  Mr. 
Merdle  to  have  said  to  Physician,  man  can  die  but  once.^ 
By  about  eleven  o’clock  in  the  forenoon,  something  the 
matter  with  the  brain,  became  the  favourite  theory  against 
the  field;  and  by  twelve  the  something  had  been  distinctly 
ascertained  to  be  ‘ Pressure.’ 

‘‘  Pressure  was  so  entirely  satisfactory  to  the  public  mind, 
and  seemed  to  make  every  one  so  comfortable,  that  it  might 
have  lasted  all  day  but  for  Bar’s  having  taken  the  real 
state  of  the  case  into  Court  at  half-past  nine.  Pressure, 
however,  so  far  from  being  overthrown  by  the  discovery, 
became  a greater  favourite  than  ever.  There  was  a general 
moralising  upon  Pressure,  in  every  street.  All  the  people 
who  had  tried  to  make  money  and  had  not  been  able  to  do 
it,  said.  There  you  were!  You  no  sooner  began  to  devote 
yourself  to  the  pursuit  of  wealth,  than  you  got  Pressure. 
The  idle  people  improved  the  occasion  in  a similar  manner. 
See,  said  they,  what  you  brought  yourself  to  by  work, 
work,  work!  You  persisted  in  working,  you  overdid  it. 
Pressure  came  on,  and  you  were  done  for!  This  consider- 
ation  was  very  potent  in  many  quarters,  but  nowhere  more 
so  than  among  the  young  clerks  and  partners  who  had 
never  been  in  the  slightest  danger  of  overdoing  it.  These, 
one  and  all  declared,  quite  piously,  that  they  hoped  they 


344 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 


would  never  forget  the  warning  as  long  as  they  lived,  and 
that  their  conduct  might  be  so  regulated  as  to  keep  off 
Pressure,  and  preserve  them,  a comfort  to  their  friends,  for 
many  years 

Just  my  case — if  I had  only  known  it — when  I was 
quietly  basking  in  the  sunshine  in  my  Kentish  meadow ! 

But  while  I so  rested,  thankfully  recovering  every  hour, 
I had  experiences  more  odd  than  this.  I had  experiences 
of  spiritual  conceit,  for  which,  as  giving  me  a new  warning 
against  that  curse  of  mankind,  I shall  always  feel  grateful 
to  the  supposition  that  I was  too  far  gone  to  protest  against 
playing  sick  lion  to  any  stray  donkey  with  an  itching  hoof. 
All  sorts  of  people  seemed  to  become  vicariously  religious 
at  my  expense.  I received  the  most  uncompromising  warn- 
ing that  I was  a Heathen;  on  the  conclusive  authority  of  a 
field  preacher,  who,  like  the  most  of  his  ignorant  and  vain 
and  daring  class,  could  not  construct  a tolerable  sentence 
in  his  native  tongue  or  pen  a fair  letter.  This  inspired  in- 
dividual called  me  to  order  roundly,  and  knew  in  the  freest 
and  easiest  way  where  I was  going  to,  and  what  would  be- 
come of  me  if  I failed  to  fashion  myself  on  his  bright  ex- 
ample, and  was  on  terms  of  blasphemous  confidence  with 
the  Heavenly  Host.  He  was  in  the  secrets  of  my  heart, 
and  in  the  lowest  soundings  of  my  soul — he ! — and  could 
read  the  depths  of  my  nature  better  than  his  A.B.C.,  and 
could  turn  me  inside  out,  like  his  own  clammy  glove.  But 
what  is  far  more  extraordinary  than  this — for  such  dirty 
water  as  this  could  alone  be  drawn  from  such  a shallow  and 
muddy  source — I found  from  the  information  of  a beneficed 
clergyman,  of  whom  I never  heard  and  whom  I never  saw, 
that  I had  not,  as  I rather  supposed  I had,  lived  a life  of 
some  reading,  contemplation,  and  inquiry;  that  I had  not 
studied,  as  I rather  supposed  I had,  to  inculcate  some 
Christian  lessons  in  books;  that  I had  never  tried,  as  I 
rather  supposed  I had,  to  turn  a child  or  two  tenderly 
towards  the  knowledge  and  love  of  our  Saviour;  that  I had 
never  had,  as  I rather  supposed  I had  had,  departed 
friends,  or  stood  beside  open  graves;  but  that  I had  lived  a 
life  of  ‘‘uninterrupted  prosperity/’  and  that  I needed  this 
“check,  overmuch,”  and  that  the  way  to  turn  it  to  account 
was  to  read  these  sermons  and  these  poems,  enclosed,  and 
written  and  issued  by  my  correspondent!  I beg  it  may  be 
understood  that  I relate  facts  of  my  own  uncommercial  ex- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


345 


perience,  and  no  vain  imaginings.  The  documents  in  proof 
lie  near  my  hand. 

Another  odd  entry  on  the  fly-leaf,  of  a more  entertaining 
character,  was  the  wonderful  persistency  with  which  kind 
sympathisers  assumed  that  I had  injuriously  coupled  with 
the  so  suddenly  relinquished  pursuit,  those  personal  habits 
of  mine  most  obviously  incompatible  with  it,  and  most 
plainly  impossible  of  being  maintained,  along  with  it.  As, 
all  that  exercise,  all  that  cold  bathing,  all  that  wind  and 
weather,  all  that  uphill  training — all  that  everything  else, 
say,  which  is  usually  carried  about  by  express  trains  in  a 
portmanteau  and  hat-box,  and  partaken  of  under  a flaming 
row  of  gaslights  in  the  company  of  two  thousand  people. 
This  assuming  of  a whole  case  against  all  fact  and  likeli' 
hood,  struck  me  as  particularly  droll,  and  was  an  oddity  of 
which  I certainly  had  had  no  adequate  experience  in  life 
until  I turned  that  curious  fly-leaf. 

My  old  acquaintances  the  begging-letter  writers  came  out 
on  the  fly-leaf,  very  piously  indeed.  They  were  glad,  at 
I such^  a serious  crisis,  to  afford  me  another  opportunity  of 
sending  that  Post-office  order.  I needn’t  make  it  a pound, 
as  previously  insisted  on;  ten  shillings  might  ease  my  mind. 
And  Heaven  forbid  that  they  should  refuse,  at  such  an  in- 
significant figure,  to  take  a weight  off  the  memory  of  an 
erring  fellow-creature ! One  gentleman,  of  an  artistic  turn 
(and  copiously  illustrating  the  books  of  the  Mendicity  So- 
ciety) thought  it  might  soothe  my  conscience  in  the  tender 
respect  of  gifts  misused,  if  I would  immediately  cash  up 
in  aid  of  his  lowly  talent  for  original  design — as  a speci- 
men of  which  he  enclosed  me  a work  of  art  which  I recog- 
nised as  a tracing  from  a woodcut  originally  published  in 
the  late  Mrs.  Trollope’s  book  on  America,  forty  or  fifty 
years  ago.  The  number  of  people  who  were  prepared  to 
live  long  years  after  me,  untiring  benefactors  to  their 
species,  for  fifty  pounds  apiece  down,  was  astonishing. 
Also,  of  those  who  wanted  bank  notes  for  stiff  penitential 
amounts,  to  give  away — not  to  keep,  on  any  account. 

Divers  wonderful  medicines  and  machines  insinuated  rec- 
ommendations of  themselves  into  the  fly-leaf  that  was  to 
have  been  so  blank.  It  was  specially  observable  that  every  ^ 
prescriber,  whether  in  a moral  or  physical  direction,  knew ' 
me  thoroughly — knew  me  from  head  to  heel,  in  and  out, 
through  and  through,  upside  down.  I was  a glass  piece  of 


346 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


general  property,  and  everybody  was  on  the  most  surpris- 
ingly intimate  terms  with  me.  A few  public  institutions 
had  complimentary  perceptions  of  corners  in  my  mind,  of 
which,  after  considerable  self-examination,  I have  not  dis- 
covered any  indication.  Neat  little  printed  forms  were  ad- 
dressed to  those  corners,  beginning  with  the  words  “ I give 
and  bequeath.” 

Will  it  seem  exaggerative  to  state  my  belief  that  the 
most  honest,  the  most  modest,  and  the  least  vain-glorious 
of  all  the  records  upon  this  strange  fly-leaf,  was  a letter 
from  the  self-deceived  discoverer  of  the  recondite  secret? 
“Howto  live  four  or  five  hundred  years.”  Doubtless  it 
will  seem  so,  yet  the  statement  is  not  exaggerative  by  any 
means,  but  is  made  in  my  serious  and  sincere  conviction. 
With  this,  and  with  a laugh  at  the  rest  that  shall  not  be 
cynical,  I turn  the  Fly-leaf,  and  go  on  again. 


XXXVII. 

A PLEA  #OR  TOTAL  ABSTINENCE. 

One  day  this  last  Whitsuntide,  at  precisely  eleven  o’clock 
in  the  forenoon,  there  suddenly  rode  into  the  field  of  view 
commanded  by  the  windows  of  my  lodging  an  equestrian 
phenomenon.  It  was  a fellow-creature  on  horseback, 
dressed  in  the  absurdest  manner.  The  fellow-creature 
wore  high  boots;  some  other  (and  much  larger)  fellow- 
creature’s  breeches,  of  a slack-baked  doughy  colour  and  a 
baggy  form;  a blue  shirt,  whereof  the  skirt,  or  tail,  was 
puffily  tucked  into  the  waist- band  of  the  said  breeches;  no 
coat;  a red  shoulder-belt;  and  a demi-semi-military  scarlet 
hat,  with  a feathered  ornament  in  front,  which,  to  the  un- 
instructed human  vision,  had  the  appearance  of  a moulting 
shuttlecock.  I laid  down  the  newspaper  with  which  I had 
been  occupied,  and  surveyed  the  fellow-man  in  question 
with  astonishment.  Whether  he  had  been  sitting  to  any 
painter  as  a frontispiece  for  a new  edition  of  “ Sartor  Re- 
sartus;”  whether  “the  husk  or  shell  of  him,”  as  the 
esteemed  Herr  Teufelsdroch  might  put  it,  were  founded  on 
a jockey,  on  a eircus,  on  General  Garibaldi,  on  cheap  por- 
celain, on  a toy  shop,  on  Guy  Fawkes,  on  waxwork,  on 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


347 


gold-digging,  on  Bedlam,  or  on  all,— were  doubts  that 
greatly  exercised  my  mind.  Meanwhile,  my  fellow-man 
stumbled  and  slided,  excessively  against  his  will,  on  the 
slippery  stones  of  my  Covent-garden  street,  and  elicited 
shrieks  from  several  sympathetic  females,  by  convulsively 
restraining  himself  from  pitching  over  his  horse’s  head. 
In  the  very  crisis  of  these  evolutions,  and  indeed  at  the 
trying  moment  when  his  charger’s  tail  was  in  a tobacconist’s 
shop,  and  his  head  anywhere  about  town,  this  cavalier  was 
joined  by  two  similar  portents,  who,  likewise  stumbling 
md  sliding,  caused  him  to  stumble  and  slide  the  more  dis- 
tressingly. At  length  this  Gilpinian  triumvirate  effected  a 
tialt,  and,  looking  northward,  waved  their  three  right  hands 
IS  commanding  unseen  troops,  to  ^'Up,  guards!  and  at 
’em.”  Hereupon  a brazen  band  burst  forth,  which  caused 
bhem  to  be  instantly  bolted  with  to  some  remote  spot  of 
aarth  in  the  direction  of  the  Surrey  Hills. 

Judging  from  these  appearances  that  a procession  was 
linder  way,  I threw  up  my  window,  and,  craning  out,  had 
the  satisfaction  of  beholding  it  advancing  along  the  streets, 
[t  was  a Teetotal  procession,  as  I learnt  from  its  banners, 
ind  was  long  enough  to  consume  twenty  minutes  in  pass- 
mg.  There  were  a great  number  of  children  in  it,  some  of 
them  so  very  young  in  their  mothers’  arms  as  to  be  in  the 
let  of  practically  exemplifying  their  abstinence  from  fer- 
Qfiented  liquors,  and  attachment  to  an  unintoxicating  drink, 
while  the  procession  defiled.  The  display  was,  on  the 
whole,  pleasant  to  see,  as  any  good-humoured  holiday 
assemblage  of  clean,  cheerful,  and  well-conducted  people 
should  be.  It  was  bright  with  ribbons,  tinsel,  and  shoul- 
ier-belts,  and  abounded  in  flowers,  as  if  those  latter  tro- 
phies had  come  up  in  profusion  under  much  watering.  The 
lay  being  breezy,  the  insubordination  of  the  large  banners 
was  very  reprehensible.  Each  of  these  being  borne  aloft 
on  two  poles  and  stayed  with  some  half-dozen  lines,  was 
carried,  as  polite  books  in  the  last  century  used  to  be  writ- 
■;en,  by  ^‘various  hands,”  and  the  anxiety  expressed  in  the 
ipturned  faces  of  those  officers, — something  between  the 
inxiety  attendant  on  the  balancing  art,  and  that  insepa- 
•able  from  the  pastime  of  kite-flying,  with  a touch  of  the 
ingler’s  quality  in  landing  his  scaly  prey, — much  impressed 
ne.  Suddenly,  too,  a banner  would  shiver  in  the  wind, 
ind  go  about  in  the  most  inconvenient  manner.  This  al- 


348 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


ways  happened  oftenest  with  such  gorgeous  standards  as 
those  representing  a gentleman  in  black,  corpulent  with  tea 
and  water,  in  the  laudable  act  of  summarily  reforming  a 
family,  feeble  and  pinched  with  beer.  The  gentleman  in 
black  distended  by  wind  would  then  conduct  himself  with 
the  most  unbecoming  levity,  while  the  beery  family,  grow- 
ing beerier,  would  frantically  try  to  tear  themselves  away 
from  his  ministration.  Some  of  the  inscriptions  accom- 
panying the  banners  were  of  a highly  determined  character, 
as  ‘‘  We  never,  never  will  give  up  the  temperance  cause,” 
with  similar  sound  resolutions  rather  suggestive  to  the  pro- 
fane mind  of  Mrs.  Micawber’s  ‘^1  never  will  desert  Mr. 
Micawber,”  and  of  Mr.  Micawber’s  retort,  Really,  my 
dear,  I am  not  aware  that  you  were  ever  required  by  any 
human  being  to  do  anything  of  the  sort.” 

At  intervals,  a gloom  would  fall  on  the  passing  members 
of  the  procession,  for  which  I was  at  first  unable  to  ac- 
count. But  this  I discovered,  after  a little  observation, 
to  be  occasioned  by  the  coming  on  of  the  executioners,—  the 
terrible  official  beings  who  were  to  make  the  speeches  by- 
and-bye, — who  were  distributed  in  open  carriages  at  vari- 
ous points  of  the  cavalcade.  A dark  cloud  and  a sensation 
of  dampness,  as  from  many  wet  blankets,  invariably  pre- 
ceded the  rolling  on  of  the  dreadful  cars  containing  these 
headsmen;  and  I noticed  that  the  wretched  people  who 
closely  followed  them,  and  who  were  in  a manner  forced  to 
contemplate  their  folded  arms,  complacent  countenances, 
and  threatening  lips,  were  more  overshadowed  by  the  cloud 
and  damp  than  those  in  front.  Indeed,  I perceived  in 
some  of  these  so  moody  an  implacability  towards  the  mag- 
nates of  the  scaffold,  and  so  plain  a desire  to  tear  them 
limb  from  limb,  that  I would  respectfully  suggest  to  the 
managers  the  expediency  of  conveying  the  executioners  to 
the  scene  of  their  dismal  labours  by  unfrequented  ways,  and 
in  closely-tilted  carts  next  Whitsuntide. 

The  procession  was  composed  of  a series  of  smaller  pro- 
cessions, which  had  come  together,  each  from  its  own 
metropolitan  district.  An  infusion  of  allegory  became  per- 
ceptible when  patriotic  Peckham  advanced.  So  I judged, 
from  the  circumstance  of  Peckham’ s unfurling  a silken 
banner  that  fanned  heaven  and  earth  with  the  words,  Tlie 
Peckliam  Lifeboat.”  No  boat  being  in  attendance,  though 
life,  in  the  likeness  of  ^^a  gallant,  gallant  crew,”  in  nauti- 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


349 


cal  uniform,  followed  the  flag,  I was  led  to  meditate  on  the 
fact  that  Peckham  is  described  by  geographers  as  an  inland 
settlement,  with  no  larger  or  nearer  shore-line  than  the 
towing-path  of  the  Surrey  Canal,  on  which  stormy  station 
I had  been  given  to  understand  no  lifeboat  exists.  Thus  I 
deduced  an  allegorical  meaning,  and  came  to  the  conclusion, 
that  if  patriotic  Peckham  picked  a peck  of  pickled  poetry, 
this  was  the  peck  of  pickled  poetry  which  patriotic  Peck- 
ham picked. 

I have  observed  that  the  aggregate  procession  was  on  the 
whole  pleasant  to  see.  I made  use  of  that  qualified  ex- 
pression with  a direct  meaning,  which  I will  now  explain. 
It  involves  the  title  of  this  paper,  and  a little  fair  trying 
of  teetotalism  by  its  own  tests.  There  were  many  people 
on  foot,  and  many  people  in  vehicles  of  various  kinds. 
The  former  were  pleasant  to  see,  and  the  latter  were  not 
pleasant  to  see;  for  the  reason  that  I never,  on  any  occa- 
sion or  under  any  circumstances,  have  beheld  heavier  over- 
loading of  horses  than  in  this  public  show.  Unless  the 
j imposition  of  a great  van  laden  with  from  ten  to  twenty 
people  on  a single  horse  be  a moderate  tasking  of  the  poor 
creature,  then  the  temperate  use  of  horses  was  immoderate 
and  cruel.  Prom  the  smallest  and  lightest  horse  to  the 
largest  and  heaviest,  there  were  many  instances  in  which 
the  beast  of  burden  was  so  shamefully  overladen,  that  the 
Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals  have  fre- 
quently interposed  in  less  gross  cases. 

Now,  I have  always  held  that  there  may  be,  and  that 
there  unquestionably  is,  such  a thing  as  use  without  abuse, 
and  that  therefore  the  total  abolitionists  are  irrational  and 
wrong-headed.  But  the  procession  completely  converted 
me.  For  so  large  a number  of  the  people  using  draught- 
horses  in  it  were  so  clearly  unable  to  use  them  without 
abusing  them,  that  I perceived  total  abstinence  from  horse- 
flesh to  be  the  only  remedy  of  which  the  case  admitted, 
j As  it  is  all  one  to  teetotalers  whether  you  take  half  a pint 
of  beer  or  half  a gallon,  so  it  was  all  one  here  whether  the 
beast  of  burden  were  a pony  or  a cart-horse.  Indeed,  my 
case  had  the  special  strength  that  the  half-pint  quadruped 
underwent  as  much  suffering  as  the  half- gallon  quadru- 
ped. Moral:  total  abstinence  from  horse-flesh  through  the 
whole  length  and  breadth  of  the  scale.  This  pledge  will  be 
in  course  of  administration  to  all  teetotal  processionists, 


350 


THE  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


not  pedestrians,  at  the  publishing  office  of  ‘‘All  the  Year 
Round,’’  on  the  1st  day  of  April,  1870. 

Observe  a point  for  consideration.  This  procession  com- 
prised many  persons  in  their  gigs,  broughams,  tax-carts, 
barouches,  chaises,  and  what  not,  who  were  merciful  to  the 
dumb  beasts  that  drew  them,  and  did  not  overcharge  their 
strength.  What  is  to  be  done  with  those  unoffending  per- 
sons? I will  not  run  amuck  and  vilify  and  defame  them, 
as  teetotal  tracts  and  platforms  would  most  assuredly  do, 
if  the  question  were  one  of  drinking  instead  of  driving : I 
merely  ask  what  is  to  be  done  with  them ! The  reply  ad- 
mits of  no  dispute  whatever.  Manifestly,  in  strict  accord- 
ance with  teetotal  doctrines,  they  must  come  in  too,  and 
take  the  total  abstinence  from  horseflesh  pledge.  It  is  not 
pretended  that  those  members  of  the  procession  misused 
certain  auxiliaries  which  in  most  countries  and  all  ages 
have  been  bestowed  upon  man  for  his  use,  but  it  is  unde- 
niable that  other  members  of  the  procession  did.  Teetotal 
mathematics  demonstrate  that  the  less  includes  the  greater; 
that  the  guilty  include  the  innocent,  the  blind  the  seeing, 
the  deaf  the  hearing,  the  dumb  the  speaking,  the  drunken 
the  sober.  If  any  of  the  moderate  users  of  draught- cattle 
in  question  should  deem  that  there  is  any  gentle  violence 
done  to  their  reason  by  these  elements  of  logic,  they  are 
invited  to  come  out  of  the  procession  next  Whitsuntide,  and 
look  at  it  from  my  window. 


NO  THOROUGHFAKE. 


/ 


NO  THOEOUGHFARE. 


THE  OVERTURE. 

Day  of  the  month  and  year,  ^Tovember  the  thirtieth,  one 
thousand  eight  hundred  and  thirty-five.  London  Time  by 
the  great  clock  of  Saint  PauLs,  ten  at  night.  All  the  lesser 
London  churches  strain  their  metallic  throats.  Some,  flip- 
pantly begin  before  the  heavy  bell  of  the  great  cathedral; 
some,  tardily  begin  three,  four,  half  a dozen,  strokes  behind 
it;  all  are  insuflS.ciently  near  accord,  to  leave  a resonance 
in  the  air,  as  if  the  winged  father  who  devours  his  children, 
had  made  a sounding  sweep  with  his  gigantic  scythe  in  fly- 
ing over  the  city. 

What  is  this  clock  lower  than  most  of  the  rest,  and  nearer 
j to  the  ear,  that  lags  so  far  behind  to-night  as  to  strike  into 
' the  vibration  alone?  This  is  the  clock  of  the  Hospital  for 
Foundling  Children.  Time  was,  when  the  Foundlings  were 
received  without  question  in  a cradle  at  the  gate.  Time  is, 
when  inquiries  are  made  respecting  them,  and  they  are 
taken  as  by  favour  from  the  mothers  who  relinquish  all 
natural  knowledge  of  them  and  claim  to  them  for  evermore. 

The  moon  is  at  the  full,  and  the  night  is  fair  with  light 
clouds.  The  day  has  been  otherwise  than  fair,  for  slush 
and  mud,  thickened  with  the  droppings  of  heavy  fog,  lie 
black  in  the  streets.  The  veiled  lady  who  flutters  up  and 
down  near  the  postern-gate  of  the  Hospital  for  Foundling 
Children  has  need  to  be  well  shod  to-night. 

She  flutters  to  and  fro,  avoiding  the  stand  of  hackney- 
coaches,  and  often  pausing  in  the  shadow  of  the  western 
end  of  the  great  quadrangle  wall,  with  her  face  turned  tow- 
ards the  gate.  As  above  her  there  is  the  purity  of  the 
moonlit  sky,  and  below  her  there  are  the  defilements  of  the 
pavement,  so  may  she,  haply,  be  divided  in  her  mind  be- 
tween two  vistas  of  reflection  or  experience?  As  her  foot- 
prints crossing  and  recrossing  one  another  have  made  a 
labyrinth  in  the  mire,  so  may  her  track  in  life  have  in-, 
volved  itself  in  an  intricate  and  unravellable  tangle? 

The  postern-gate  of  the  Hospital  for  Foundling  Children 
opens,  and  a young  woman  comes  out.  The  lady  stands 
1 


2 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


aside,  observes  closely,  sees  that  the  gate  is  quietly  closed 
again  from  within,  and  follows  the  young  woman. 

Two  or  three  streets  have  been  traversed  in  silence  before 
she,  following  close  behind  the  object  of  her  attention, 
stretches  out  her  hand  and  touches  her.  Then  the  young 
woman  stops  and  looks  round,  startled. 

“You  touched  me  last  night,  and,  when  I turned  my 
head,  you  would  not  speak.  Why  do  you  follow  me  like  a 
silent  ghost?  ” 

“It  was  not,”  returned  the  lady,  in  a low  voice,  “that  I 
would  not  speak,  but  that  I could  not  when  I tried.” 

“ What  do  you  want  of  me?  I have  never  done  you  any 
harm?  ” 

“ Never.” 

“ Do  I know  you?  ” 

“No.” 

“ Then  what  can  you  want  of  me?  ” 

“ Here  are  two  guineas  in  this  paper.  Take  my  poor  lit- 
tle present,  and  I will  tell  you.  ” 

Into  the  young  woman’s  face,  which  is  honest  and  comely, 
comes  a flush  as  she  replies : “ There  is  neither  grown  per- 
son nor  child  in  all  the  large  establishment  that  I belong  to 
who  hasn’t  a good  word  for  Sally.  I am  Sally.  Could  I 
be  so  well  thought  of,  if  I was  to  be  bought?  ” 

“I  do  not  mean  to  buy  you;  I mean  only  to  reward  you 
very  slightly.” 

Sally  flrmly,  but  not  urgently,  closes  and  puts  back  the 
offering  hand.  “ If  there  is  anything  that  I can  do  for  you, 
ma’am,  that  I will  not  do  for  its  own  sake,  you  are  much 
mistaken  in  me  if  you  think  that  I will  do  it  for  money. 
What  is  it  you  want?  ” 

“ You  are  one  of  the  nurses  or  attendants  at  the  Hospi- 
tal; I saw  you  leave  to-night  and  last  night.” 

“Yes,  I am.  I am  Sally.” 

“ There  is  a pleasant  patience  in  your  face  which  makes 
me  believe  that  very  young  children  would  take  readily  to 
you.  ” 

“ God  bless  ’em ! So  they  do.” 

The  lady  lifts  her  veil,  and  shows  a face  no  older  than 
the  nurse’s.  A face  far  more  refined  and  capable  than 
hers,  but  wild  and  worn  with  sorrow. 

“ I am  the  miserable  mother  of  a baby  lately  received 
under  your  care.  I have  a prayer  to  make  to  you.” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


3 


Instinctively  respecting  the  confidence  which  has  drawn 
aside  the  veil,  Sally — whose  ways  are  all  ways  of  simplicity 
and  spontaneity — replaces  it,  and  begins  to  cry. 

‘‘You  will  listen  to  my  prayer?  ’’  the  lady  urges.  “You 
will  not  be  deaf  to  the  agonised  entreaty  of  such  a broken 
suppliant  as  I am?  ” 

“ Oh,  dear,  dear,  dear ! ” cries  Sally.  “ What  shall  I 
say,  or  can  I say!  Don’t  talk  of  prayers.'  Prayers  are  to 
be  put  up  to  the  Good  Father  of  All,  and  not  to  nurses  and 
such.  And  there ! I am  only  to  hold  my  place  for  half  a 
year  longer,  till  another  young  woman  can  be  trained  up  to 
it.  I am  going  to  be  married.  I shouldn’t  have  been  out 
last  night,  and  I shouldn’t  have  been  out  to-night,  but  that 
my  Dick  (he  is  the  young  man  I am  going  to  be  married  to) 
lies  ill,  and  I help  his  mother  and  sister  to  watch  him. 
Don’t  take  on  so,  don’t  take  on  so ! ” 

“0  good  Sally,  dear  Sally,”  moans  the  lady,  catching  at 
her  dress  entreatingly.  “ As  you  are  hopeful  and  I am 
hopeless;  as  a fair  way  in  life  is  before  you,  which  can 
never,  never,  be  before  me;  as  you  can  aspire  to  become  a 
respected  wife,  and  as  you  can  aspire  to  become  a proud 
mother;  as  you  are  a living,  loving  woman,  and  must  die; 
for  God’s  sake  hear  my  distracted  petition!  ” 

“ Deary,  deary,  deary  me  ! ” cries  Sally,  her  desperation 
culminating  in  the  pronoun,  “what  am  I ever  to  do?  And 
there ! See  how  you  turn  my  own  words  back  upon  me.  I 
tell  you  I am  going  to  be  married,  on  purpose  to  make  it 
clearer  to  you  that  I am  going  to  leave,  and  therefore 
couldn’t  help  you  if  I would.  Poor  Thing,  and  you  make  it 
seem  to  my  own  self  as  if  I was  cruel  in  going  to  be  mar- 
ried and  not  helping  you.  It  ain’t  kind.  Now,  is  it  kind. 
Poor  Thing?  ” 

“ Sally ! Hear  me,  my  dear.  My  entreaty  is  for  no  help 
in  the  future.  It  applies  to  what  is  past.  It  is  only  to  be 
told  in  two  words.” 

“There!  This  is  worse  and  worse,”  cries  Sally,  “sup- 
posing that  I understand  what  two  words  you  mean.” 

“ You  do  understand.  What  are  the  names  they  have 
given  my  poor  baby?  I ask  no  more  than  that.  I have 
read  of  the  customs  of  the  place.  He  has  been  christened 
in  the  chapel,  and  registered  by  some  surname  in  the  book. 
He  was  r^eived  last  Monday  evening.  What  have  they 
called  him?  ” 


4 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


Down  upon  her  knees  in  the  foul  mud  of  the  bye- way 
into  which  they  have  strayed — an  empty  street  without  a 
thoroughfare,  giving  on  the  dark  gardens  of  the  Hospital — 
the  lady  would  drop  in  her  passionate  entreaty,  but  that 
Sally  prevents  her. 

“Don’t!  Don’t!  You  make  me  feel  as  if  I was  setting 
myself  up  to  be  good.  Let  me  look  in  your  pretty  face 
again.  Put  your  two  hands  in  mine.  Now,  promise. 
You  will  never  ask  me  anything  more  than  the  two  words?  ” 

“ N ever ! N ever ! ” 

“ You  will  never  put  them  to  a bad  use,  if  I say  them ! ” 

“Never!  Never!” 

“ Walter  Wilding.” 

The  lady  lays  her  face  upon  the  nurse’s  breast,  draws 
her  close  in  her  embrace  with  both  arms,  murmurs  a bless- 
ing and  the  words,  “ Kiss  him  for  me ! ” and  is  gone. 

Day  of  the  month  and  year,  the  first  Sunday  in  October, 
one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  forty-seven.  London 
Time  by  the  great  clock  of  Saint  Paul’s,  half-past  one  in 
the  afternoon.  The  clock  of  the  Hospital  for  Foundling 
Children  is  well  up  with  the  Cathedral  to-day.  Service  in 
the  chapel  is  over,  and  the  Foundling  Children  are  at  dinner. 

There  are  numerous  lookers-on  at  the  dinner,  as  the  cus- 
tom is.  There  are  two  or  three  governors,  whole  families 
from  the  congregation,  smaller  groups  of  both  sexes,  indi- 
vidual stragglers  of  various  degrees.  The  bright  autumnal 
sun  strikes  freshly  into  the  wards;  and  the  heavy-framed 
windows  through  which  it  shines,  and  the  panelled  walls 
on  which  it  strikes,  are  such  windows  and  such  walls  as 
pervade  Hogarth’s  pictures.  The  girls’  refectory  (includ- 
ing that  of  the  younger  children)  is  the  principal  attraction. 
Neat  attendants  silently  glide  about  the  orderly  and  silent 
tables;  the  lookers-on  move  or  stop  as  the  fancy  takes  them; 
comments  in  whispers  on  face  such  a number  from  such  a 
window  are  not  unfrequent;  many  of  the  faces  are  of  a 
character  to  fix  attention.  Some  of  the  visitors  from  the 
outside  public  are  accustomed  visitors.  They  have  estab- 
lished a speaking  acquaintance  with  the  occupants  of  par- 
ticular seats  at  the  tables,  and  halt  at  those  points  to  bend 
down  and  say  a word  or  two.  It  is  no  disparagement  to 
their  kindness  that  those  points  are  generally  points  where 
personal  attractions  are.  The  monotony  of  long  spacious 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


5 


rooms  and  the  double  lines  of  faces  is  agreeably  relieved  by 
these  incidents,  although  so  slight. 

A veiled  lady,  who  has  no  companion,  goes  among  the 
company.  It  would  seem  that  curiosity  and  opportunity 
have  never  brought  her  there  before.  She  has  the  air  of 
being  a little  troubled  by  the  sight,  and,  as  she  goes  the 
length  of  the  tables,  it  is  with  a hesitating  step  and  an  un- 
easy manner.  At  length  she  comes  to  the  refectory  of  the 
boys.  They  are  so  much  less  popular  than  the  girls  that  it 
is  bare  of  visitors  when  she  looks  in  at  the  doorway. 

But  just  within  the  doorway,  chances  to  stand,  inspect- 
ing, an  elderly  female  attendant : some  order  of  matron  or 
housekeeper.  To  whom  the  lady  addresses  natural  ques- 
tions : As,  how  many  boys?  At  what  age  are  they  usually 
put  out  in  life?  Do  they  often  take  a fancy  to  the  sea? 
So,  lower  and  lower  in  tone  until  the  lady  puts  the  ques- 
tion : Which  is  Walter  Wilding?  ” 

I Attendant’s  head  shaken.  Against  the  rules. 

You  know  which  is  Walter  Wilding?  ” 

So  keenly  does  the  attendant  feel  the  closeness  with 
which  the  lady’s  eyes  examine  her  face,  that  she  keeps  her 
own  eyes  fast  upon  the  floor,  lest  by  wandering  in  the  right 
direction  they  should  betray  her. 

I know  which  is  Walter  Wilding,  but  it  is  not  my  place, 
ma’am,  to  tell  names  to  visitors.” 

‘^But  you  can  show  me  without  telling  me.” 

The  lady’s  hand  moves  quietly  to  the  attendant’s  hand. 
Pause  and  silence. 

“I  am  going  to  pass  round  the  tables,”  says  the  lady’s 
interlocutor,  without  seeming  to  address  her.  “Follow  me 
with  your  eyes.  The  boy  that  I stop  and  speak  to,  will  not 
matter  to  you.  But  the  boy  that  I touch,  will  be  Walter 
Wilding.  Say  nothing  more  to  me,  and  move  a little  away.” 
Quickly  acting  on  the  hint,  the  lady  passes  on  into  the 
' room,  and  looks  about  her.  After  a few  moments,  the  at- 
tendant, in  a staid  official  way,  walks  down  outside  the  line 
of  tables  commencing  on  her  left  hand.  She  goes  the  whole 
length  of  the  line,  turns,  and  comes  back  on  the  inside. 
Very  slightly  glancing  in  the  lady’s  direction,  she  stoops,, 
bends  forward,  and  speaks.  The  boy  whom  she  addresses, 
lifts  his  head  and  replies.  Good  humouredly  and  easily,  as 
she  listens  to  what  he  says,  she  lays  her  hand  upon  the 
shoulder  of  the  next  boy  on  his  right.  That  the  action 


6 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


may  be  well  noted,  she  keeps  her  hand  on  the  shoulder 
while  speaking  in  return,  and  pats  it  twice  or  thrice  before 
moving  away.  She  completes  her  tour  of  the  tables,  touch- 
ing no  one  else,  and  passes  out  by  a door  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  long  room. 

Dinner  is  done,  and  the  lady,  too,  walks  down  outside 
the  line  of  tables  commencing  on  her  left  hand,  goes  the 
whole  length  of  the  line,  turns,  and  comes  back  on  the  in- 
side. Other  people  have  strolled  in,  fortunately  for  her, 
and  stand  sprinkled  about.  She  lifts  her  veil,  and,  stop- 
ping at  the  touched  boy,  asks  how  old  he  is? 

am  twelve,  ma’am,^^  he  answers,  with  his  bright  eves 
fixed  on  hers. 

Are  you  well  and  happy? 

^^Yes,  ma’am.’’ 

'^May  you  take  these  sweetmeats  from  my  hand?” 

‘^If  you  please  to  give  them  to  me.” 

In  stooping  low  for  the  purpose,  the  lady  touches  the 
boy’s  face  with  her  forehead  and  with  her  hair.  Then, 
lowering  her  veil  again,  she  passes  on,  and  passes  out  with- 
out looking  back. 

ACT  I. 

THE  CURTAIN  RISES. 

In  a courtyard  in  the  City  of  London,  which  was  No 
Thoroughfare  either  for  vehicles  or  foot-passengers;  a 
courtyard  diverging  from  a steep,  a slippery,  and  a winding 
street  connecting  Tower-street  with  the  Middlesex  shore  of 
the  Thames;  stood  the  place  of  business  of  Wilding  and 
Co.  Wine  Merchants.  Probably,  as  a jocose  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  obstructive  character  of  this  main  approach, 
the  point  nearest  to  its  base  at  which  one  could  take  the 
river  (if  so  inodorously  minded)  bore  the  appellation  Break- 
Neck-Stairs.  The  courtyard  itself  had  likewise  been  de- 
scriptively entitled  in  old  time.  Cripple  Corner. 

Years  before  the  year  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
sixty-one,  people  had  left  off  taking  boat  at  Break-Neck- 
Stairs,  and  watermen  had  ceased  to  ply  there.  The  slimy 
little  causeway  had  dropped  into  the  river  by  a slow  proc- 
ess of  suicide,  and  two  or  three  stumps  of  piles  and  a rusty 
iron  mooring-ring  were  all  that  remained  of  the  departed 
Break-Neck  glories.  Sometimes,  indeed,  a laden  coal 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


7 


_ , barge  would  bump  itself  into  the  place,  and  certain  labori- 
ous heavers,  seemingly  mud-engendered,  would  arise,  de- 
1 liver  the  cargo  in  the  neighbourhood,  shove  off,  and  vanish; 
ibut  at  most  times  the  only  commerce  of  Break-Neck- Stairs 
iarose  out  of  the  conveyance  of  casks  and  bottles,  both  full 
land  empty,  both  to  and  from  the  cellars  of  Wilding  and 
Co.  Wine  Merchants.  Even  that  commerce  was  but  occa- 
sional, and  through  three- fourths  of  its  rising  tides  the 
■ dirty  indecorous  drab  of  a river  would  come  solitarily  ooz- 
ing and  lapping  at  the  rusty  ring,  as  if  it  had  heard  of  the 
Doge  and  the  Adriatic,  and  wanted  to  be  married  to  the 
great  conserver  of  its  filthiness,  the  Right  Honourable  the 
Lord  Mayor 

Some  two  hundred  and  fifty  yards  on  the  right,  up  the 
opposite  hill  (approaching  it  from  the  low  ground  of  Break- 
Neck-Stairs)  was  Cripple  Corner.  There  was  a pump  in 
: Cripple  Corner,  there  was  a tree  in  Cripple  Corner.  All 
Cripple  Corner  belonged  to  Wilding  and  Co.  Wine  Mer- 
chants. Their  cellars  burrowed  under  it,  their  mansion 
|towered  over  it.  It  really  had  been  a mansion  in  the  days 
'when  merchants  inhabited  the  City,  and  had  a ceremonious 
"shelter  to  the  doorway  without  visible  support,  like  the 
sounding-board  over  an  old  pulpit.  It  had  also  a number 
of  long  narrow  strips  of  window,  so  disposed  in  its  grave 
brick  front  as  to  render  it  symmetrically  ugly.  It  had 
also,  on  its  roof,  a cupola  with  a bell  in  it. 

I “ When  a man  at  five-and-twenty  can  put  his  hat  on,  and 
Aan  say  ‘ this  hat  covers  the  owner  of  this  property  and  of 
the  business  which  is  transacted  on  this  property,’  I con- 
sider, Mr.  Bintrey,  that,  without  being  boastful,  he  may  be 
allowed  to  be  deeply  thankful.  I don’t  know  how  it  may 
jippear  to  you,  but  so  it  appears  to  me.” 

Thus  Mr.  Walter  Wilding  to  his  man  of  law,  in  his  own 
poun ting-house;  taking  his  hat  down  from  its  peg  to  suit 
":he  action  to  the  word,  and  hanging  it  up  again  when  he 
.lad  done  so,  not  to  overstep  the  modesty  of  nature. 

An  innocent,  open-speaking,  unused-looking  man,  Mr. 
Walter  Wilding,  with  a remarkably  pink  and  white  com- 
plexion, and  a figure  much  too  bulky  for  so  young  a man, 
•hough  of  a good  stature.  With  crispy  curling  brown  hair, 
ind  amiable  bright  blue  eyes.  An  extremely  communica-  ' 
ive  man : a man  with  whom  loquacity  was  the  irrestrainable 
jiutpouring  of  contentment  and  gratitude.  Mr.  Bintrey,  on 

r 


8 


NO  TlIOROUGllFARE. 


the  otlicr  hand,  a cautious  man  with  twinkling  beads  of 
eyes  in  a large  overhanging  bald  head,  who  inwardly  but 
intensely  enjoyed  the  comicality  of  openness  of  speech,  or 
hand,  or  heart. 

^^Yes,”  said  Mr.  Bin  trey.  ‘^Yes.  Ha,  ha!’’ 

A decanter,  two  wine-glasses,  and  a plate  of  biscuits, 
stood  on  the  desk. 

You  like  this  forty-five  year  old  port  wine?  ” said  Mr. 
Wilding. 

Like  it?”  repeated  Mr.  Bintrey.  “Bather,  sir!” 

“ It’s  from  the  best  corner  of  our  best  forty-five  year  old 
bin,”  said  Mr.  Wilding. 

“Thank  you,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Bintrey.  “It’s  most  excel- 
lent.” 

He  laughed  again,  as  he  held  up  his  glass  and  ogled 
it,  at  the  highly  ludicrous  idea  of  giving  away  such 
wine. 

“And  now,”  said  Wilding,  with  a childish  enjoyment  in 
the  discussion  of  affairs,  “ I think  we  have  got  everything 
straight,  Mr.  Bintrey.” 

“Everything  straight,”  said  Bintrey. 

“ A partner  secured ” 

“Partner  secured,”  said  Bintrey. 

“ A housekeeper  advertised  for ” 

“Housekeeper  advertised  for,”  said  Bintrey,  apply 
personally  at  Cripple  Corner,  Great  Tower-street,  from  ten 
to  twelve  ’ — to-morrow,  by  the  bye.” 

“My  late  dear  mother’s  affairs  wound  up- ” 

“Wound  up,”  said  Bintrey. 

“And  all  charges  paid.” 

“And  all  charges  paid,”  said  Bintrey,  with  a chuckle: 
probably  occasioned  by  the  droll  circumstance  that  they  had 
been  paid  without  a haggle. 

“The  mention  of  my  late  dear  mother,”  Mr.  Wilding 
continued,  his  eyes  filling  with  tears  and  his  pocket-hand- 
kerchief drying  them,  “unmans  me  still,  Mr.  Bintrey. 
You  know  how  I loved  her;  you  (her  lawyer)  know  how 
she  loved  me.  The  utmost  love  of  mother  and  child  was 
cherished  between  us,  and  we  never  experienced  one  mo- 
ment’s division  or  unhappiness  from  the  time  when  she 
took  me  under  her  care.  Thirteen  years  in  all ! Thirteen 
years  under  my  late  dear  mother’s  care,  Mr.  Bintrey,  and 
eight  of  them  her  confidentially  acknowledged  son!  You 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


9 


know  the  story,  Mr.  Bintrey,  who  but  you,  sir ! Mr. 
Wilding  sobbed  and  dried  his  eyes,  without  attempt  at  con- 
cealment, during  these  remarks. 

Mr.  Bintrey  enjoyed  his  comical  port,  and  said,  after 
rolling  it  in  his  mouth:  I know  the  story. 

‘‘My  late  dear  mother,  Mr.  Bintrey,’’  pursued  the  wine- 
merchant,  “had  been  deeply  deceived,  and  had  cruelly 
suffered.  But  on  that  subject  my  late  dear  mother’s  lips 
were  for  ever  sealed.  By  whom  deceived,  or  under  what 
circumstances.  Heaven  only  knows.  My  late  dear  mother 
never  betrayed  her  betrayer.” 

“She  had  made  up  her  mind,”  said  Mr.  Bintrey,  again 
turning  his  wine  on  his  palate,  “ and  she  could  hold  her 
peace.”  An  amused  twinkle  in  his  eyes  pretty  plainly 
added — “ A devilish  deal  better  than  you  ever  will ! ” 

“‘Honour,’”  said  Mr.  Wilding,  sobbing  as  he  quoted 
from  the  Commandments,  “ ‘ thy  father  and  thy  mother, 
that  thy  days  may  be  long  in  the  land.’  When  I was  in 
the  Foundling,  Mr.  Bintrey,  I was  at  such  a loss  how  to 
do  it,  that  1 apprehended  my  days  would  be  short  in  the 
land.  But  I afterwards  came  to  honour  my  mother  deeply, 
profoundly.  And  I honour  and  revere  her  memory.  For 
seven  happy  years,  Mr.  Bintrey,”  pursued  Wilding,  still 
with  the  same  innocent  catching  in  his  breath,  and  the 
same  unabashed  tears,  “ did  my  excellent  mother  article  me 
to  my  predecessors  in  this  business,  Pebbleson  Nephew. 
Her  affectionate  forethought  likewise  apprenticed  me  to  the 
Vintners’  Company,  and  made  me  in  time  a Free  Vintner, 
and — and — everything  else  that  the  best  of  mothers  could 
desire.  When  I came  of  age,  she  bestowed  her  inherited 
share  in  this  business  upon  me;  it  was  her  money  that 
afterwards  bought  out  Pebbleson  Nephew,  and  painted  in 
Wilding  and  Co. ; it  was  she  who  left  me  everything  she 
possessed,  but  the  mourning  ring  you  wear.  And  yet,  Mr. 
Bintrey,”  with  a fresh  burst  of  honest  affection,  “she  is 
no  more.  It  is  a little  over  half  a year  since  she  came  into 
the  Corner  to  read  on  that  door-post  with  her  own  eyes. 
Wilding  and  Co.  Wine  Merchants.  And  yet  she  is  no 
more ! ” 

“ Sad.  But  the  common  lot,  Mr.  Wilding,”  observed' 
Bintrey.  “ At  some  time  or  other  we  must  all  be  no  more.” 
He  placed  the  forty-five  year  old  port  wine  in  the  universal 
condition,  with  a relishing  sigh. 


10 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


So  now,  Mr.  Bintrey/^  pursued  Wilding,  putting  away 
his  pocket-handkerchief,  and  smoothing  his  eyelids  with 
his  fingers,  ^^now  that  I can  no  longer  show  my  love  and 
honour  for  the  dear  parent  to  whom  my  heart  was  myste- 
riously turned  by  Nature  when  she  first  spoke  to  me,  a 
strange  lady,  I sitting  at  our  Sunday  dinner-table  in  the 
Foundling,  I can  at  least  show  that  I am  not  ashamed  of 
having  been  a Foundling,  and  that  I,  who  never  knew  a 
father  of  my  own,  wish  to  be  a father  to  all  in  my  employ- 
ment. Therefore,”  continued  Wilding,  becoming  enthusi- 
astic in  his  loquacity,  therefore,  I want  a thoroughly 
good  housekeeper  to  undertake  this  dwelling-house  of 
Wilding  and  Co.  Wine  Merchants,  Cripple  Corner,  so  that 
I may  restore  in  it  some  of  the  old  relations  betwixt  em- 
ployer and  employed ! So  that  I may  live  in  it  on  the  spot 
where  my  money  is  made ! So  that  I may  daily  sit  at  the 
head  of  the  table  at  which  the  people  in  my  employment 
eat  together,  and  may  eat  of  the  same  roast  and  boiled,  and 
drink  of  the  same  beer ! So  that  the  people  in  my  employ- 
ment may  lodge  under  the  same  roof  with  me ! So  that  we 

may  one  and  all 1 beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Bintrey,  but 

that  old  singing  in  my  head  has  suddenly  come  on,  and  I 
shall  feel  obliged  if  you  will  lead  me  to  the  pump.” 

Alarmed  by  the  excessive  pinkness  of  his  client,  Mr. 
Bintrey  lost  not  a moment  in  leading  him  forth  into  the 
courtyard.  It  was  easily  done,  for  the  counting-house  in 
which  they  talked  together  opened  on  to  it,  at  one  side  of 
the  dwelling-house.  There,  the  attorney  pumped  with  a 
will,  obedient  to  a sign  from  the  client,  and  the  client 
laved  his  head  and  face  with  both  hands,  and  took  a hearty 
drink.  After  these  remedies,  he  declared  himself  much 
better. 

Don’t  let  your  good  feelings  excite  you,”  said  Bintrey, 
as  they  returned  to  the  counting-house,  and  Mr.  Wilding 
dried  himself  on  a jack-towel  behind  an  inner  door. 

^^No,  no.  I won’t,”  he  returned,  looking  out  of  the 
towel.  won’t.  I have  not  been  confused,  have  I?  ” 
‘^Notatall.  Perfectly  clear.” 

Where  did  I leave  off,  Mr.  Bintrey?  ” 

^^Well,  you  left  off — but  I wouldn’t  excite  myself,  if  T 
was  you,  by  taking  it  up  again  just  yet.” 

‘‘  I’ll  take  care.  I’ll  take  care.  The  singing  in  my  head 
came  on  at  where,  Mr.  Bintrey?  ” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


11 


“At  roast,  and  boiled,  and  beer,’^  answered  the  lawyer, 
prompting— “ lodging  under  the  same  roof — and  one  and 
all ” 

“ Ah ! And  one  and  all  singing  in  the  head  together ” 

Do  you  know  I really  would  not  let  my  good  feelings 
excite  me,  if  I was  you,”  hinted  the  lawyer  again,  anx- 
iously. “ Try  some  more  pump.” 

“No  occasion,  no  occasion.  All  right,  Mr.  Bintrey. 
And  one  and  all  forming  a kind  of  family!  You  see,  Mr. 
Bintrey,  I was  not  used  in  my  childhood  to  that  sort  of 
individual  existence  which  most  individuals  have  led,  more 
or  less,  in  their  childhood.  After  that  time  I became  ab- 
sorbed in  my  late  dear  mother.  Having  lost  her,  I find 
that  I am  more  fit  for  being  one  of  a body  than  one  by  my- 
self one.  To  be  that,  and  at  the  same  time  to  do  my  duty 
; to  those  dependent  on  me,  and  attach  them  to  me,  has  a 
patriarchal  and  pleasant  air  about  it.  I don’t  know  how  it 
may  appear  to  you,  Mr.  Bintrey,  but  so  it  appears  to  me.” 
j “It  is  not  I who  am  all-important  in  the  case,  but  you,” 
•returned  Bintrey.  “Consequently,  how  it  may  appear  to 
me,  is  of  very  small  importance.” 

“It  appears  tome,”  said  Mr.  Wilding,  in  a glow,  “hope- 
ful, useful,  de-lightful ! ” 

“Do  you  know,”  hinted  the  lawyer  again,  “I  really 
would  not  ex ” 

“I  am  not  going  to.  Then  there’s  Handel.” 

“There’s  who?”  asked  Bintrey. 

“Handel,  Mozart,  Haydn,  Kent,  Purcell,  Doctor  Arne, 
Greene,  Mendelssohn.  I know  the  choruses  to  those  an- 
thems by  heart.  Foundling  Chapel  Collection.  Why 
shouldn’t  we  learn  them  together ! ” 

“ Who  learn  them  together?  ” asked  the  lawyer,  rather 
shortly. 

“Employer  and  employed.” 

“Ay,  ay!”  returned  Bintrey,  mollified;  as  if  he  had 
half  expected  the  answer  to  be.  Lawyer  and  client. 
“That’s  another  thing.” 

“Not  another  thing,  Mr.  Bintrey!  The  same  thing.  A 
part  of  the  bond  among  us.  We  will  form  a Choir  in  some 
quiet  church  near  the  Corner  here,  and,  having  sung  to-^ 
gether  of  a Sunday  with  a relish,  we  will  come  home  and* 
take  an  early  dinner  together  with  a relish.  The  object 
that  I have  at  heart  now,  is  to  get  this  system  well  in  ac- 


12 


NO  THOPiOUGIIFARE. 


tion  without  delay,  so  that  my  new  partner  may  find  it 
founded  when  he  enters  on  his  partnership.’^ 

All  good  be  with  it ! ” exclaimed  Bintrey,  rising. 
“May  it  prosper!  Is  Joey  Ladle  to  take  a share  in  Han- 
del, Mozart,  Haydn,  Kent,  Purcell,  Doctor  Arne,  Greene, 
and  Mendelssohn?  ” 

“ I hope  so.  ” 

“I  wish  them  all  well  out  of  it,”  returned  Bintrey,  with 
much  heartiness.  “Good-bye,  sir.” 

They  shook  hands  and  parted.  Then  (first  knocking 
with  his  knuckles  for  leave)  entered  to  Mr.  Wilding,  from 
a door  of  communication  between  his  private  counting-house 
and  that  in  which  his  clerks  sat,  the  Head  Cellarman  of 
the  cellars  of  Wilding  and  Co.  Wine  Merchants,  and  erst 
Head  Cellarman  of  the  cellars  of  Pebbleson  Nephew.  The 
Joey  Ladle  in  question.  A slow  and  ponderous  man,  of 
the  drayman  order  of  human  architecture,  dressed  in  a cor- 
rugated suit  and  bibbed  apron,  apparently  a composite  of 
door-mat  and  rhinoceros-hide. 

“Respecting  this  same  boarding  and  lodging.  Young 
Master  Wilding,”  said  he. 

“Yes,  Joey?” 

“Speaking  for  myself.  Young  Master  Wilding — and  I 
never  did  speak  and  I never  do  speak  for  no  one  else — 
I don’t  want  no  boarding  nor  yet  no  lodging.  But  if  you 
wish  to  board  me  and  to  lodge  me,  take  me.  I can  peck 
as  well  as  most  men.  Where  I peck,  ain’t  so  high  a object 
with  me  as  What  I peck.  Nor  even  so  high  a object  with 
me  as  How  Much  I peck.  Is  all  to  live  in  the  house. 
Young  Master  Wilding?  The  two  other  cellarmen,  the 
three  porters,  the  two  ’prentices,  and  the  odd  men?  ” 

“Yes.  I hope  we  shall  all  be  an  united  family,  Joey.” 
“ Ah ! ” said  Joey.  “ I hope  they  may  be.” 

“They?  Rather  say  we,  Joey.” 

Joey  Ladle  shook  his  head.  “ Don’t  look  to  me  to  make 
we  on  it.  Young  Master  Wilding,  not  at  my  time  of  life 
and  unr]{w  the  circumstances  which  has  formed  my  dispo- 
sition. I have  said  to  Pebbleson  Nephew  many  a time, 
when  they  have  said  to  me,  ^ Put  a livelier  face  upon  it, 
Joey  ’ — I have  said  to  them,  ^ Gentlemen,  it  is  all  wery 
well  for  you  that  has  been  accustomed  to  take  your  wine 
into  your  systems  by  the  conwivial  channel  of  your  throt- 
tles, to  put  a lively  face  upon  it;  but,’  I says,  ^ I have  been 


KO  THOROUGHFARE. 


13 


accustomed  to  take  my  wine  iu  at  the  pores  of  the  skin,  and, 
took  that  away,  it  acts  different.  It  acts  depressing.  It^s 
one  thing,  gentlemen,’  I says  to  Pebbleson  Nephew,  ^ to 
charge  your  glasses  in  a dining-room  with  a Hip  Hurrah 
and  a Jolly  Companions  Every  One,  and  it’s  another ^thing 
to  be  charged  yourself,  through  the  pores,  in  a low  dark 
.cellar  and  a mouldy  atmosphere.  It  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence betwixt  bubbles  and  wapours,’  I tells  Pebbleson 
Nephew,  And  so  it  do.  I’ve  been  a cellarman  my  life 
through,  with  my  mind  fully  given  to  the  business. 
What’s  the  consequence?  I’m  as  muddled  a man  as  lives 
h— you  won’t  find  a muddleder  man  than  me — nor  yet  you 
won’t  find  my  equal  in  molloncolly.  Sing  of  Filling  the 
:bumper  fair.  Every  drop  you  sprinkle,  O’er  the  brow  of 
hare.  Smooths  away  a wrinkle?  Yes  P’raps  so.  But 
fry  filling  yourself  through  the  pores,  underground,  when 
you  don’t  want  to  it!  ” 

I I am  sorry  to  hear  this,  Joey.  I had  even  thought 
'that  you  might  join  a singing-class  in  the  house.” 

^^Me,  sir?  No,  no.  Young  Master  Wilding,  you  won’t 
catch  Joey  Ladle  muddling  the  Armony.  A pecking- 
machine,  sir,  is  all  that  I am  capable  of  proving  myself, 
out  of  my  cellars;  but  that  you’re  welcome  to,  if  you  think 
it’s  worth  your  while  to  keep  such  a thing  on  your  prem- 
ises.” 

do,  Joey.” 

Say  no  more,  sir.  The  Business’s  word  is  my  law. 
And  you’re  a going  to  take  Young  Master  George  Vendale 
partner  into  the  old  Business?  ” 
am.,  Joey.” 

More  changes,  you  see  1 But  don’t  change  the  name  of 
the  Firm  again.  Don’t  do  it.  Young  Master  Wilding.  It 
was  bad  luck  enough  to  make  it  Yourself  and  Co.  Better 
by  far  have  left  it  Pebbleson  Nephew  that  good  luck  always 
stuck  to.  You  should  never  change  luck  when  it’s  good, 
sir.” 

^‘At  all  events,  I have  no  intention  of  changing  the 
name  of  the  House  again,  Joey.” 

‘‘Glad  to  hear  it,  and  wish  you  good  day.  Young  Master^ 
Wilding.  But  you  had  better  by  half,”  muttered  Joey' 
Ladle,  inaudibly,  as  he  closed  the  door  and  shook  his 
head,  “ have  let  the  name  alone  from  the  first.  You  had 
better  by  half  have  followed  the  luck  instead  of  crossing  it.” 


14 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


ENTER  THE  HOUSEKEEPER. 

The  wine-merchant  sat  in  his  dining-room  next  morning, 
to  receive  the  personal  applicants  for  the  vacant  post  in  his 
establishment.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  wainscoted  room; 
the  panels  ornamented  with  festoons  of  flowers  carved  in 
wood;  with  an  oaken  floor,  a well-worn  Turkey  carpet,  and 
dark  mahogany  furniture,  all  of  which  had  seen  service  and 
polish  under  Pebbleson  Nephew,  The  great  sideboard  had 
assisted  at  many  business-dinners  given  by  Pebbleson 
Nephew  to  their  connection,  on  the  principle  of  throwing 
sprats  overboard  to  catch  whales;  and  Pebbleson  Nephew’s 
comprehensive  three-sided  plate- warmer,  made  to  fit  the 
whole  front  of  the  large  fire-place,  kept  watch  beneath  it 
over  a sarcophagus- shaped  cellaret  that  had  in  its  time  held 
many  a dozen  of  Pebbleson  Nephew’s  wine.  But  the  little 
rubicund  old  bachelor  with  a pigtail,  whose  portrait  was 
over  the  sideboard  (and  who  could  easily  be  identified  as 
decidedly  Pebbleson  and  decidedly  not  Nephew),  had  re- 
tired into  another  sarcophagus,  and  the  plate- warmer  had 
grown  as  cold  as  he.  So,  the  golden  and  black  griffins 
that  supported  the  candelabra,  with  black  balls  in  their 
mouths  at  the  end  of  gilded  chains,  looked  as  if  in  their  old 
age  they  had  lost  all  heart  for  playing  at  ball,  and  were 
dolefully  exhibiting  their  chains  in  the  missionary  line  of 
inquiry,  whether  they  had  not  earned  emancipation  by  this 
time,  and  were  not  griffins  and  brothers? 

Such  a Columbus  of  a morning  was  the  summer  morning, 
that  it  discovered  Cripple  Corner.  The  light  and  warmth 
pierced  in  at  the  open  windows,  and  irradiated  the  picture 
of  a lady  hanging  over  the  chimney-piece,  the  only  other 
decoration  of  the  walls. 

‘‘My  mother  at  five-and-twenty,”  said  Mr.  Wilding  to 
himself,  as  his  eyes  enthusiastically  followed  the  light  to 
the  portrait’s  face,  “ I hang  up  here,  in  order  that  visitors 
may  admire  my  mother  in  the  bloom  of  her  youth  and 
beauty.  My  mother  at  fifty  I hang  in  the  seclusion  of  my 
own  chamber,  as  a remembrance  sacred  to  me.  Oh!  It’s 
you,  Jarvis ! ” 

These  latter  words  he  addressed  to  a clerk  who  had 
tapped  at  the  door,  and  now  looked  in. 

“Yes,  sir.  I merely  wish  to  mention  that  it’s  gone  ten, 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


15 


sir,  and  that  there  are  several  females  in  the  Counting- 
House/^ 

Dear  me ! said  the  wine-merchant,  deepening  in  the 
pink  of  his  complexion  and  whitening  in  the  white,  ^‘are 
there  several?  So  many  as  several?  I had  better  begin 
before  there  are  more.  I’ll  see  them  one  by  one,  Jarvis, 
in  the  order  of  their  arrival.” 

Hastily  entrenching  himself  in  his  easy-chair  at  the  table 
behind  a great  inkstand,  having  first  placed  a chair  on  the 
[other  side  of  the  table  opposite  his  own  seat,  Mr.  Wilding 
antered  on  his  task  with  considerable  trepidation. 

He  ran  the  gauntlet  that  must  be  run  on  any  such  occa- 
fion.  There  were  the  usual  species  of  profoundly  unsym- 
pathetic women,  and  the  usual  species  of  much  too  sympa- 
bhetic  women.  There  were  the  buccaneering  widows  who 
i3ame  to  seize  him,  and  who  griped  umbrellas  under  their 
irms,  as  if  each  umbrella  were  he,  and  each  griper  had  got 
aim.  There  were  towering  maiden  ladies  who  had  seen 
getter  days,  and  who  came  armed  with  clerical  testimonials 
■ X)  their  theology,  as  if  he  were  Saint  Peter  with  his  keys. 
There  were  gentle  maiden  ladies  who  came  to  marry  him. 
^There  were  professional  housekeepers,  like  non-commis- 
uoned  officers,  who  put  him  through  his  domestic  exercise, 
nstead  of  submitting  themselves  to  catechism.  There 
were  languid  invalids  to  whom  salary  was  not  so  much  an 
)bject  as  the  comforts  of  a private  hospital.  There  were 
sensitive  creatures  who  burst  into  tears  on  being  addressed, 
iind  had  to  be  restored  with  glasses  of  cold  water.  There 
vere  some  respondents  who  came  two  together,  a highly 
^^)romising  one  and  a wholly  unpromising  one : of  whom  the 
promising  one  answered  all  questions  charmingly,  until  it 
vould  at  last  appear  that  she  was  not  a candidate  at  all, 
)ut  only  the  friend  of  the  unpromising  one,  who  had  glow- 
ered in  absolute  silence  and  apparent  injury. 
i At  last,  when  the  good  wine-merchant’s  simple  heart  was 
lailing  him,  there  entered  an  applicant  quite  different  from 
ill  the  rest.  A woman,  perhaps  fifty,  but  looking  younger, 
vith  a face  remarkable  for  placid  cheerfulness,  and  a man- 
ler  no  less  remarkable  for  its  quiet  expression  of  equability 
temper.  Nothing  in  her  dress  could  have  been  changed 
o her  advantage.  Nothing  in  the  noiseless  self-possession 
>f  her  manner  could  have  been  changed  to  her  advantage. 
Nothing  could  have  been  in  better  unison  with  both,  than 


10 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


her  voice  when  she  answered  the  question : What  name 

shall  I have  the  pleasure  of  noting  down?  ” with  the 
words,  My  name  is  Sarah  Goldstraw.  Mrs.  Goldstraw. 
My  husband  has  been  dead  many  years,  and  we  had  no 
family.’^ 

Half  a dozen  questions  had  scarcely  extracted  as  much 
to  the  purpose  from  any  one  else.  The  voice  dwelt  so 
agreeably  on  Mr.  Wilding’s  ear  as  he  made  his  note,  that 
he  was  rather  long  about  it.  When  he  looked  up  again, 
Mrs.  Goldstraw’ s glance  had  naturally  gone  round  the 
room,  and  now  returned  to  him  from  the  chimney-piece. 
Its  expression  was  one  of  frank  readiness  to  be  questioned, 
and  to  answer  straight. 

You  will  excuse  my  asking  you  a few  questions?  ” said 
the  modest  wine-merchant. 

‘^Oh,  surely,  sir.  Or  I should  have  no  business  here.” 
^‘Have  you  filled  the  station  of  housekeeper  before?  ” 
‘^Only  once.  I have  lived  with  the  same  widow  lady  for 
twelve  years.  Ever  since  I lost  my  husband.  She  was  an 
invalid,  and  is  lately  dead ; which  is  the  occasion  of  my 
now  wearing  black.” 

I do  not  doubt  that  she  has  left  you  the  best  creden- 
tials? ” said  Mr.  Wilding. 

I hope  I may  say,  the  very  best.  I thought  it  would 
save  trouble,  sir,  if  I wrote  down  the  name  and  address  of 
her  representatives,  and  brought  it  with  me.”  Laying  a 
card  on  the  table. 

“You  singularly  remind  me,  Mrs.  Goldstraw,”  said 
Wilding,  taking  the  card  beside  him,  “of  a manner  and 
tone  of  voice  that  I was  once  acquainted  with.  Not  of  an 
individual — I feel  sure  of  that,  though  I cannot  recall  what 
it  is  I have  in  my  mind — but  of  a general  bearing.  I ought 
to  add,  it  was  a kind  and  pleasant  one  ” 

She  smiled,  as  she  reioined : “ At  least,  I am  very  glad 
of  that,  sir.” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  wine-merchant,  thoughtfully  repeating 
his  last  phrase,  with  a momentary  glance  at  his  future 
housekeeper,  “ it  was  a kind  and  pleasant  one  But  that 
is  the  most  I can  make  of  it.  Memory  is  sometimes  like  a 
half-forgotten  dream.  I don’t  know  how  it  may  appear  to 
you,  Mrs  Goldstraw,  but  so  it  appears  to  me.” 

Probably  it  appeared  to  Mrs  Goldstraw  in  a similar 
light,  for  she  quietly  assented  to  the  proposition.  Mr. 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


17 


Wilding  then  offered  to  put  himself  at  once  in  communica- 
tion with  the  gentlemen  named  upon  the  card : a firm  of 
proctors  in  Doctors’  Commons.  To  this,  Mrs.  Goldsti*aw 
thankfully  assented.  Doctors’  Commons  not  being  far  off, 
Mr.  Wilding  suggested  the  feasibility  of  Mrs.  Goldstraw’s 
looking  in  again,  say  in  three  hours’  time.  Mrs.  Gold- 
straw  readily  undertook  to  do  so.  In  fine,  the  result  of 
Mr.  Wilding’s  inquiries  being  eminently  satisfactory,  Mrs 
Goldstraw  was  that  afternoon  engaged  (on  her  own  per- 
fectly fair  terms)  to  come  to-morrow  and  set  up  her  rest 
as  housekeeper  in  Cripple  Corner. 

THE  HOUSEKEEPER  SPEAKS. 

On  the  next  day  Mrs.  Goldstraw  arrived,  to  enter  on  her 
domestic  duties. 

Having  settled  herself  in  her  own  room,  without  trou- 
bling the  servants,  and  without  wasting  time,  the  new  house- 
keeper announced  herself  as  waiting  to  be  fav  red  with 
any  instructions  which  her  master  might  wish  to  give  her. 
The  wine-merchant  received  Mrs.  Goldstraw  in  the  dining- 
room, in  which  he  had  seen  her  on  the  previous  day;  and, 
the  usual  preliminary  civilities  having  passed  on  either 
side,  the  two  sat  down  to  take  counsel  together  on  the 
affairs  of  the  house. 

About  the  meals,  sir?”  said  Mrs.  Goldstraw.  “Have 
[ a large,  or  a small,  number  to  provide  for?  ” 

“If  I can  carry  out  a certain  old-fashioned  plan  of  mine,” 
replied  Mr.  Wilding,  “you  will  have  a large  number  to 
provide  for.  I am  a lonely  single  man,  Mrs.  Goldstraw; 
md  I hope  to  live  with  all  the  persons  in  my  employment 
IS  if  they  we»e  members  of  my  family.  Until  that  time 
3omes,  you  will  only  have  me,  and  the  new  partner  whom 
[ expect  immediately,  to  provide  for.  What  my  partner’s 
labits  may  be,  I cannot  yet  say.  But  I may  describe  my- 
self as  a man  of  regular  hours,  with  an  invariable  appetite 
]hat  you  may  depend  upon  to  an  ounce,” 

“About  breakfast,  sir?”  asked  Mrs.  Goldstraw.  “Is 

:here  anything  particular ? ” 

She  hesitated,  and  left  the  sentence  unfinished.  Her 
3yes  turned  slowly  away  from  her  master,  and  looked  tow- 
irds  the  chimney-piece.  If  she  had  been  a less  excellent 
md  experienced  housekeeper,  Mr.  Wilding  might  have 
2 


18 


NO  THOROUGHP^ARE. 


fancied  that  her  attention  was  beginning  to  wander  at  the 
very  outset  of  the  interview. 

“Eight  o’clock  is  my  breakfast-hour,”  he  resumed.  “It 
is  one  of  my  virtues  to  be  never  tired  of  broiled  bacon,  and 
it  is  one  of  my  vices  to  be  habitually  suspicious  of  the  fresh- 
ness of  eggs.”  Mrs.  Goldstraw  looked  back  at  him,  still  a 
little  divided  between  her  master’s  chimney-piece  and  her 
master.  “I  take  tea,”  Mr.  Wilding  went  on;  “and  I am 
perhaps  rather  nervous  and  fidgety  about  drinking  it,  within 
a certain  time  after  it  is  made.  If  my  tea  stands  too 
long ” 

He  hesitated,  on  his  side,  and  left  the  sentence  unfin- 
ished. If  he  had  not  been  engaged  in  discussing  a subject 
of  such  paramount  interest  to  himself  as  his  breakfast,  Mrs. 
Goldstraw  might  have  fancied  that  his  attention  was  begin- 
ning to  wander  at  the  very  outset  of  the  interview. 

“ If  your  tea  stands  too  long,  sir ? ” said  the  house- 

keeper, politely  taking  up  her  master’s  lost  thread. 

“If  my  tea  stands  too  long,”  repeated  the  wine-merchant, 
mechanically,  his  mind  getting  further  and  further  away 
from  his  breakfast,  and  his  eyes  fixing  themselves  more 
and  more  inquiringly  on  his  housekeeper’s  face.  “If  my 
tea Dear,  dear  me,  Mrs.  Goldstraw!  what  ^5 the  man- 

ner and  tone  of  voice  that  you  remind  me  of?  It  strikes 
me  even  more  strongly  to-day,  than  it  did  when  I saw  you 
yesterday.  What  can  it  be?  ” 

“ What  can  it  be?  ” repeated  Mrs.  Goldstraw. 

She  said  the  words,  evidently  thinking  while  she  spoke 
them  of  something  else.  The  wine-merchant,  still  looking 
at  her  inquiringly,  observed  that  her  eyes  wandered  towards 
the  chimney-piece  once  more.  They  fixed  on  the  portrait 
of  his  mother,  which  hung  there,  and  looked  at  it  with  that 
slight  contraction  of  the  brow  which  accompanies  a scarcely 
conscious  effort  of  memory.  Mr.  Wilding  remarked : 

“ My  late  dear  mother,  when  she  was  five-and-twenty.  ” 

Mrs.  Goldstraw  thanked  him  with  a movement  of  the- 
head  for  being  at  the  pains  to  explain  the  picture,  and  said, 
with  a cleared  brow,  that  it  was  the  portrait  of  a very  beau- 
tiful lady. 

Mr  Wilding,  falling  back  into  his  former  perplexity, 
tried  once  more  to  recover  that  lost  recollection,  associated 
so  closely,  and  yet  so  undiscoverably,  with  his  new  house- 
keeper’s voice  and  manner. 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


19 


Excuse  niy  asking  you  a question  which  has  nothing  to 
do  with  me  or  my  breakfast/’  he  said.  ^^May  I inquire  if 
, you  have  ever  occupied  any  other  situation  than  the  situ- 
ation of  housekeeper?  ” 

Oh  yes,  sir  I began  life  as  one  of  the  nurses  at  the 
Foundling.” 

^‘Why,  that’s  it!”  cried  the  wine-merchant,  pushing 
r back  his  chair.  By  Heaven ! Their  manner  is  the  man- 
ner you  remind  me  of ! ” 

* In  an  astonished  look  at  him,  Mrs.  Goldstraw  changed 
colour,  checked  herself,  turned  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 

; and  sat  still  and  silent. 

■ What  is  the  matter?  ” asked  Mr.  Wilding. 

Do  I understand  that  you  were  in  the  Foundling,  sir?  ” 
“Certainly.  I am  not  ashamed  to  own  it.” 

“Under  the  name  you  now  bear?  ” 

“Under  the  name  of  Walter  Wilding.” 

“And  the  lady ?”  Mrs.  Goldstraw  stopped  short, 

I with  a look  at  the  portrait  which  was  now  unmistakably  a 
look  of  alarm 

“ You  mean  my  mother,”  interrupted  Mr.  Wilding. 
“Your — mother,”  repeated  the  housekeeper,  a little  con- 
strainedly, “removed  you  from  the  Foundling?  At  what 
age,  sir?  ” 

“At  between  eleven  and  twelve  years  old.  It’s  quite  a 
' romantic  adventure,  Mrs.  Goldstraw.” 

He  told  the  story  of  tlie  lady  having  spoken  to  him,  while 
he  sat  at  dinner  with  the  other  boys  in  the  Foundling,  and 
of  all  that  had  followed,  in  his  innocently  communicative 
way.  “My  poor  mother  could  never  have  discovered  me,” 

. he  added,  “if  she  had  not  met  with  one  of  the  matrons 
who  pitied  her.  The  matron  consented  to  touch  the  boy 
whose  name  was  ‘ Walter  Wilding  ’ as  she  went  round  the 
dinner-tables — and  so  my  mother  discovered  me  again, 
after  having  parted  from  me  as  an  infant  at  the  Foundling 
' doors.” 

At  those  words  Mrs.  Goldstraw’s  hand,  resting  on  the 
table,  dropped  helplessly  into  her  lap.  She  sat,  looking  at 
her  new  master,  with  a face  that  had  turned  deadly  pale, 
and  with  eyes  that  expressed  an  unutterable  dismay. 

' “ What  does  this  mean?  ” asked  the  wine-merchant. 

“Stop!”  he  cried.  “Is  there  something  else  in  the  past 
time  which  I ought  to  associate  with  you?  I remember, 


20 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


my  mother  telling  me  of  another  person  at  the  Foundling, 
to  whose  kindness  she  owed  a debt  of  gratitude.  When 
she  first  parted  with  me,  as  an  infant,  one  of  the  nurses  in- 
formed her  of  the  name  that  had  been  given  to  me  in  the 
institution.  You  were  that  nurse?  ” 

‘^God  forgive  me,  sir — I was  that  nurse!  ” 

God  forgive  you? 

We  had  better  get  back,  sir  (if  I may  make  so  bold  as 
to  say  so),  to  my  duties  in  the  house,’’  said  Mrs.  Gold- 
straw.  “ Your  breakfast-hour  is  eight.  Do  you  lunch,  or 
dine,  in  the  middle  of  the  day?  ” 

The  excessive  pinkness  which  Mr.  Bintrey  had  noticed 
in  his  client’s  face  began  to  appear  there  once  more.  Mr. 
Wilding  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  mastered  some  mo- 
mentary confusion  in  that  quarter,  before  he  spoke  again. 

‘‘Mrs.  Goldstraw,”  he  said,  “you  are  concealing  some- 
thing from  me ! ” 

The  housekeeper  obstinately  repeated,  “ Please  to  favour 
me,  sir,  by  saying  whether  you  lunch,  or  dine,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  day?  ” 

“I  don’t  know  what  T do  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  I 
can’t  enter  into  my  household  affairs,  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  till 
I know  why  you  regret  an  act  of  kindness  to  my  mother, 
which  she  always  spoke  of  gratefully  to  the  end  of  her  life. 
You  are  not  doing  me  a service  by  your  silence.  You  are 
agitating  me,  you  are  alarming  me,  you  are  bringing  on  the 
singing  in  my  head.” 

His  hand  went  up  to  his  head  again,  and  the  pink  in  his 
face  deepened  by  a shade  or  two. 

“Its  hard,  sir,  on  just  entering  your  service,”  said  the 
housekeeper,  “ to  say  what  may  cost  me  the  loss  of  your 
good  will.  Please  to  remember,  end  how  it  may,  that  I 
only  speak  because  you  have  insisted  on  my  speaking,  and 
because  I see  that  I am  alarming  you  by  my  silence.  When 
I told  the  poor  lady,  whose  portrait  you  have  got  there,  the 
name  by  which  her  infant  was  christened  in  the  Foundling, 
I allowed  myself  to  forget  my  duty,  and  dreadful  conse- 
quences, I am  afraid,  have  followed  from  it.  I’ll  tell  you 
the  truth,  as  plainly  as  I can.  A few  months  from  the 
time  when  I had  informed  the  lady  of  her  baby’s  name, 
there  came  to  our  institution  in  the  country  another  lady  (a 
stranger),  whose  object  was  to  adopt  one  of  our  children. 
She  brought  the  needful  permission  with  her,  and  after 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


21 


looking  at  a great  many  of  the  children,  without  being  able 
to  make  up  her  mind,  she  took  a sudden  fancy  to  one  of  the 
babies — a boy — under  my  care.  Try,  pray  try,  to  compose 
yourself,  sir!  It’s  no  use  disguising  it  any  longer.  The 
child  the  stranger  took  away  was  the  child  of  that  lady 
whose  portrait  hangs  there ! ” 

Mr.  Wilding  started  to  his  feet.  Impossible ! ” he  cried 
out,  vehemently.  ^‘What  are  you  talking  about?  What 
absurd  story  are  you  telling  me  now?  There’s  her  por- 
trait ! Haven’t  I told  you  so  already?  The  portrait  of  my 
mother ! ” 

When  that  unhappy  lady  removed  you  from  the  Found- 
ling in  after  years,”  said  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  gently,  ^^she  was 
the  victim,  and  you  were  the  victim,  sir,  of  a dreadful  mis- 
take.” 

He  dropped  back  into  his  chair.  The  room  goes  round 
with  me,”  he  said.  ^‘My  head!  my  head!”  The  house- 
keeper rose  in  alarm,  and  opened  the  windows.  Before  she 
could  get  to  the  door  to  call  for  help,  a sudden  burst  of  tears 
relieved  the  oppression  which  had  at  first  almost  appeared 
to  threaten  his  life.  He  signed  entreatingly  to  Mrs.  Gold- 
straw  not  to  leave  him.  She  waited  until  the  paroxysm  of 
weeping  had  worn  itself  out.  He  raised  his  head  as  he  re- 
covered himself,  and  looked  at  her  with  the  angry  unrea- 
soning suspicion  of  a weak  man. 

Mistake?”  he  said,  wildly  repeating  her  last  words. 

How  do  I know  you  are  not  mistaken  yourself?  ” 

There  is  no  hope  that  I am  mistaken,  sir.  I will  tell 
you  why,  when  you  are  better  fit  to  hear  it.” 

^^!Mow!  now!” 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  warned  Mrs.  Goldstraw  that 
it  would  be  cruel  kindness  to  let  him  comfort  himself  a mo- 
ment longer  with  the  vain  hope  that  she  might  be  wrong. 
A few  words  more  would  end  it — and  those  few  words  she 
determined  to  speak. 

‘‘I  have  told  you,”  she  said,  ^Ghat  the  child  of  the  lady 
whose  portrait  hangs  there,  was  adopted  in  its  infancy,  and 
taken  away  by  a stranger.  I am  as  certain  of  what  I say 
as  that  I am  now  sitting  here,  obliged  to  distress  you,  sir, 
sorely  against  my  will.  Please  to  carry  your  mind  on," 
now,  to  about  three  months  after  that  time.  I was  then  at 
the  Foundling,  in  London,  waiting  to  take  some  children 
to  our  institution  in  the  country.  There  was  a question 


22 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


that  day  about  naming  an  infant — a boy — who  had  just 
been  received.  We  generally  named  them  out  of  the  Di- 
rectory. On  this  occasion,  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  man- 
aged the  Hospital  happened  to  be  looking  over  the  Regis  ^ 
ter.  He  noticed  that  the  name  of  the  baby  who  had  been 
adopted  (‘Walter  Wilding’)  was  scratched  out — for  the 
reason,  of  course,  that  the  child  had  been  removed  for  good 
from  our  care.  ‘ Here’s  a name  to  let,’  he  said.  ‘ Give  it 
to  the  new  foundling  who  has  been  received  to-day.’  The 
name  was  given,  and  the  child  was  christened.  You,  sir, 
were  that  child.” 

The  wine-merchant’s  head  dropped  on  his  breast.  “I 
was  that  child ! ” he  said  to  himself,  trying  helplessly  to  fix 
the  idea  in  his  mind.  “ I was  that  child ! ” 

“ Not  very  long  after  you  had  been  received  into  the  In- 
stitution, sir,”  pursued  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  “I  left  my  situ- 
ation there,  to  be  married.  If  you  will  remember  that, 
and  if  you  can  give  your  mind  to  it,  you  will  see  for  your- 
self how  the  mistake  happened.  Between  eleven  and 
twelve  years  passed  before  the  lady,  whom  you  have  be- 
lieved to  be  your  mother,  returned  to  the  Foundling,  to 
find  her  son,  and  to  remove  him  to  her  own  home.  The 
lady  only  knew  that  her  infant  had  been  called  ‘ Walter 
Wilding.’  The  matron  who  took  pity  on  her,  could  but 
point  out  the  only  ‘ Walter  Wilding  ’ known  in  the  Institu- 
tion. I,  who  might  have  set  the  matter  right,  was  far 
away  from  the  Foundling  and  all  that  belonged  to  it. 
There  was  nothing — there  was  really  nothing  that  could 
prevent  this  terrible  mistake  from  taking  place.  I feel  for 
you — I do  indeed,  sir!  You  must  think — and  with  reason 
— that  it  was  in  an  evil  hour  that  I came  here  (innocently 
enough,  I’m  sure),  to  apply  for  your  housekeeper’s  place. 
I feel  as  if  I was  to  blame — I feel  as  if  I ought  to  have  had 
more  self-command.  If  I had  only  been  able  to  keep  my 
face  from  showing  you,  what  that  portrait  and  what  your 
own  words  put  into  my  mind — you  need  never,  to  your 
dying  day,  have  known  what  you  know  now.” 

Mr.  Wilding  looked  up  suddenly.  The  inbred  honesty 
of  the  man  rose  in  protest  against  the  housekeeper’s  last 
words.  His  mind  seemed  to  steady  itself,  for  the  moment, 
under  the  shock  that  had  fallen  on  it. 

“ Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  would  have  concealed  this 
from  me  if  you  could?  ” he  exclaimed. 


NO  THOROUGITFAEE 


23 


hope  I should  always  tell  the  truth,  sir,  if  T was 
asked,”  said  Mrs.  Goldstraw.  ‘^And  I know  it  is  better 
for  me  that  I should  not  have  a secret  of  this  sort  weighing 
on  my  mind.  But  is  it  better  for  you?  What  use  can  it 
serve  now ? ” 

“ What  use?  Why,  good  Lord ! if  your  story  is  true ” 

Should  I have  told  it,  sir,  as  I am  now  situated,  if  it 
had  not  been  true?  ” 

beg  your  pardon,”  said  the  wine-merchant.  ^Wou 
must  make  allowance  for  me.  This  dreadful  discovery  is 
something  I can^t  realise  even  yet.  We  loved  each  other 
so  dearly — I felt  so  fondly  that  I was  her  son.  She  died, 
Mrs.  Goldstraw,  in  my  arms — she  died  blessing  me  as  only 
a mother  could  have  blessed  me.  And  now,  after  all  these 
years,  to  be  told  she  was  not  my  mother ! O me,  0 me ! I 
don’t  know  what  I am  saying!  ” he  cried,  as  the  impulse 
of  self-control  under  which  he  had  spoken  a moment  since, 
flickered,  and  died  out.  It  was  not  this  dreadful  grief — 
it  was  something  else  that  I had  it  in  my  mind  to  speak  of. 
Yes,  yes.  You  surprised  me — you  wounded  me  just  now. 
You  talked  as  if  you  would  have  hidden  this  from  me,  if 
you  could.  Don’t  talk  in  that  way  again.  It  would  have 
been  a crime  to  have  hidden  it.  You  mean  well,  I know. 
I don’t  want  to  distress  you — you  are  a kind-hearted  woman. 
But  you  don’t  remember  what  my  position  is.  She  left  me 
all  that  I possess,  in  the  firm  persuasion  that  I was  her  son. 
I am  not  her  son.  I have  taken  the.place,  I have  innocently 
got  the  inheritance  of  another  man.  He  must  be  found ! 
How  do  I know  he  is  not  at  this  moment  in  misery,  with- 
out bread  to  eat?  He  must  be  found ! My  only  hope  of 
bearing  up  against  the  shock  that  has  fallen  on  me,  is  the 
hope  of  doing  something  which  she  would  have  approved. 
You  must  know  more,  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  than  you  have  told 
me  yet.  Who  was  the  stranger  who  adopted  the  child? 
You  must  have  heard  the  lady’s  name?  ” 

“ I never  heard  it,  sir.  I have  never  seen  her,  or  heard 
of  her,  since.” 

^‘Did  she  say  nothing  when  she  took  the  child  away? 
Search  your  memory.  She  must  have  said  something.” 
^‘Only  one  thing,  sir,  that  I can  remember.  It  was  a 
miserably  bad  season,  that  year;  and  many  of  the  children 
were  suffering  from  it.  When  she  took  the  baby  away,  the 
lady  said  to  me,  laughing,  ‘ Don’t  be  alarmed  about  his 


24 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


healtli.  He  will  be  brought  up  in  a better  climate  than 
this — I am  going  to  take  him  to  Switzerland.  ’ ” 

To  Switzerland?  What  part  of  Switzerland?  ” 

^^She  didn’t  say,  sir.” 

‘‘  Only  that  faint  clue ! ” said  Mr.  Wilding.  And  a 
quarter  of  a century  has  passed  since  the  child  was  taken 
away ! What  am  I to  do?  ” 

I hope  you  won’t  take  offence  at  my  freedom,  sir,”  said 
Mrs.  Goldstraw;  ^^but  why  should  you  distress  yourself 
about  what  is  to  be  done?  He  may  not  be  alive  now,  for 
anything  you  know.  And,  if  he  is  alive,  it’s  not  likely  he 
can  be  in  any  distress.  The  lady  who  adopted  him  was 
a bred  and  born  lady — it  was  easy  to  see  that.  And  she 
must  have  satisfied  them  at  the  Foundling  that  she  could 
provide  for  the  child,  or  they  would  never  have  let  her  take 
him  away.  If  I was  in  your  place,  sir — please  to  excuse 
my  saying  so — I should  comfort  myself  with  remembering 
that  I had  loved  that  poor  lady  whose  portrait  you  have  got 
there — truly  loved  her  as  my  mother,  and  that  she  had 
truly  loved  me  as  her  son.  All  she  gave  to  you,  she  gave 
for  the  sake  of  that  love.  It  never  altered  while  she  lived; 
and  it  won’t  alter,  I’m  sure,  as  long  as  you  live.  How  can  you 
have  a better  right,  sir,  to  keep  what  you  have  got  than  that?” 
Mr.  Wilding’s  immovable  honesty  saw  the  fallacy  in  his 
housekeeper’s  point  of  view  at  a glance. 

You  don’t  understand  me,”  he  said.  ^Ht’s  because  I 
loved  her  that  I feel  it  a duty — a sacred  duty: — to  do  justice 
to  her  son.  If  he  is  a living  man,  I must  find  him : for  my 
own  sake,  as  well  as  for  his.  I shall  break  down  under  this 
dreadful  trial,  unless  I employ  myself — actively,  instantly 
employ  myself — in  doing  what  my  conscience  tells  me  ought 
to  be  done.  I must  speak  to  my  lawyer;  I must  set  my 
lawyer  at  work  before  I sleep  to-night.”  He  approached  a 
tube  in  the  wall  of  the  room,  and  called  down  through  it  to 
the  office  below.  Leave  me  for  a little,  Mrs.  Goldstraw,” 
he  resumed;  shall  be  more  composed,  I shall  be  better 
able  to  speak  to  you  later  in  the  day.  We  shall  get  on 
well — I hope  we  shall  get  on  well  together — in  spite  of 
what  has  happened.  It  isn’t  your  fault;  I know  it  isn’t 
your  fault.  There!  there!  shake  hands;  and — and  do  the 
best  you  can  in  the  house — I can’t  talk  about  it  now.” 

The  door  opened  as  Mrs.  Goldstraw  advanced  towards  it; 
and  Mr.  Jarvis  appeared. 


NO  THOROUGHFARE  26 

^^Send  for  Mr.  Bintrey/^  said  the  wine-merchant.  ^^Say 
I want  to  see  him  directly. 

The  clerk  unconsciously  suspended  the  execution  of  the 
order,  by  announcing  ^^Mr.  Vendale,”  and  showing  in  the 
new  partner  in  the  firm  of  Wilding  and  Co. 

‘^Pray  excuse  me  for  one  moment,  George  Vendale,”  said 
Whlding.  ^‘1  have  a word  to  say  to  Jarvis.  Send  for  Mr. 
Bin  trey, he  repeated — ^^send  at  once.” 

Mr.  Jarvis  laid  a letter  on  the  table  before  he  left  the 
room. 

‘‘From  our  correspondents  at  Neuchatel,  I think,  sir. 
The  letter  has  got  the  Swiss  postmark.” 

^ NEW  CHARACTERS  ON  THE  SCENE. 

The  words,  “The  Swiss  Postmark,”  following  so  soon 
upon  the  housekeeper’s  reference  to  Switzerland,  wrought 
Mr.  Wilding’s  agitation  to  such  a remarkable  height,  that 
his  new  partner  could  not  decently  make  a pretence  of  let- 
ting it  pass  unnoticed. 

“Wilding,”  he  asked  hurriedly,  and  yet  stopping  short 
and  glancing  around  as  if  for  some  visible  cause  of  his  state 
of  mind : “ what  is  the  matter?  ” 

“ My  good  George  Vendale,”  returned  the  wine-merchant, 
giving  his  hand  with  an  appealing  look,  rather  as  if  he 
wanted  help  to  get  over  some  obstacle,  than  as  if  he  gave 
it  in  welcome  or  salutation:  “my  good  George  Vendale,  so 
much  is  the  matter,  that  I shall  never  be  myself  again.  It 
is  impossible  that  I can  ever  be  myself  again.  For,  in  fact, 
I am  not  myself.” 

The  new  partner,  a brown-cheeked  handsome  fellow,  of 
about  his  own  age,  with  a quick  determined  eye  and  an  im- 
pulsive manner,  retorted  with  natural  astonishment:  “Not 
yourself?  ” 

“Not  what  I supposed  myself  to  be,”  said  Wilding. 

“ What,  in  the  name  of  wonder,  did  you  suppose  yourself 
to  be  that  you  are  not?  ” was  the  rejoinder,  delivered  with 
a cheerful  frankness,  inviting  confidence  from  a more  reti- 
cent man.  “ I may  ask  without  impertinence,  now  that  we 
are  partners.” 

“ There  again ! ” cried  Wilding,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
with  a lost  look  at  the  other.  “ Partners ! I had  no  right 
t/O  come  into  this  business.  It  was  never  meant  for  me 


26 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


My  mother  never  meant  it  should  be  mine.  I mean,  his 
mother  meant  it  should  be  his— if  I mean  anything— or  if 
I am  anybody.” 

“Come,  come,”  urged  his  partner,  after  a moment’s 
pause,  and  taking  possession  of  him  with  that  calm  confi- 
dence which  inspires  a strong  nature  when  it  honestly  de- 
sires to  aid  a weak  one.  “ Whatever  has  gone  wrong,  has 
gone  wrong  through  no  fault  of  yours,  I am  very  sure.  I 
was  not  in  this  counting-house  with  you  under  the  old  re- 
gime, for  three  years,  to  doubt  you.  Wilding.  We  were 
not  younger  men  than  we  are,  together,  for  that.  Let  me 
begin  our  partnership  by  being  a serviceable  partner,  and 
setting  right  whatever  is  wrong.  Has  that  letter  anything 
to  do  with  it?  ” 

“Hah!”  said  Wilding,  with  his  hand  to  his  temple. 
“There  again!  My  head!  I was  forgetting  the  coinci- 
dence. The  Swiss  postmark.” 

“ At  a second  glance  I see  that  the  letter  is  unopened,  so 
it  IS  not  very  likely  to  have  much  to  do  with  the  matter,” 
said  Vendale,  with  comforting  composure.  “Is  it  for  you, 
or  for  us?  ” 

“For  us,”  said  Wilding. 

“ Suppose  I open  it  and  read  it  aloud,  to  get  it  out  of  our 
way?  ” 

“ Thank  you,  thank  you.  ” 

“ The  letter  is  only  from  our  champagne-making  friends, 
the  House  at  Neuchatel.  ‘ Dear  Sir.  We  are  in  receipt  of 
yours  of  the  28th  ult.,  informing  us  that  you  have  taken 
your  Mr.  Vendale  into  partnership,  whereon  we  beg  you  to 
receive  the  assurance  of  our  felicitations.  Permit  us  to 
embrace  the  occasion  of  specially  commending  to  you,  M. 
Jules  Obenreizer.’  Impossible!” 

Wilding  looked  up  in  quick  apprehension,  and  cried, 
“Eh?” 

“Impossible  sort  of  name,” returned  his  partner,  slightly 
— “Obenreizer.  ‘ — Of  specially  commending  to  you  M. 
Jules  Obenreizer,  of  Soho-square,  London  (north  side), 
henceforth  fully  accredited  as  our  agent,  and  who  has  al- 
ready had  the  honour  of  making  the  acquaintance  of  your 
Mr.  Vendale,  in  his  (said  M.  Obenreizer’s)  native  country, 
Switzerland.’  To  be  sure:  pooh  pooh,  what  have  I been 
thinking  of!  I remember  now;  ‘ when  travelling  with  his 
niece.  ’ ” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


27 


With  his ? ” Vendale  had  so  slurred  the  last  word, 

that  Wilding  had  not  heard  it. 

^^When  travelling  with  his  Niece.  Obenreizer’s  Niece,” 
said  Vendale,  in  a somewhat  superfluously  lucid  manner. 

Niece  of  Obenreizer.  (I  met  them  in  my  flrst  Swiss 
tour,  travelled  a little  with  them,  and  lost  them  for  two 
years:  met  them  again,  my  Swiss  tour  before  last,  and 
have  lost  them  ever  since.)  Obenreizer.  Niece  of  Oben- 
reizer. To  be  sure!  Possible  sort  of  name,  after  all! 
‘ M.  Obenreizer  is  in  possession  of  our  absolute  confidence, 
and  we  do  not  doubt  you  will  esteem  his  merits.’  Duly 
signed  by  the  House,  ‘Defresnier  et  Very  well.  I 

undertake  to  see  M.  Obenreizer  presently,  and  clear  him 
out  of  the  way.  That  clears  the  Swiss  postmark  out  of  the 
way.  So  now,  my  dear  Wilding,  tell  me  what  I can  clear 
out  of  your  way,  and  I’ll  find  a way  to  clear  it.” 

More  than  ready  and  grateful  to  be  thus  taken  charge  of, 
the  honest  wine-merchant  wrung  his  partner’s  hand,  and, 
beginning  his  tale  by  pathetically  declaring  himself  an 
Impostor,  told  it. 

It  was  on  this  matter,  no  doubt,  that  you  were  sending 
for  Bintrey,  when  I came  in?  ” said  his  partner,  after  re- 
flecting. 

^^It  was.” 

‘‘He  has  experience  and  a shrewd  head;  I shall  be  anx- 
ious to  know  his  opinion.  It  is  bold  and  hazardous  in  me 
to  give  you  mine  before  I know  his,  but  I am  not  good  at 
holding  back.  Plainly,  then,  I do  not  see  these  circum- 
stances as  you  see  them.  I do  not  see  your  position  as  you 
see  it.  As  to  your  being  an  Impostor,  my  dear  Wilding, 
that  is  simply  absurd,  because  no  man  can  be  that  without 
being  a consenting  party  to  an  imposition.  Clearly  you 
never  were  so.  As  to  your  enrichment  by  the  lady  who 
believed  you  to  be  her  son,  and  whom  you  were  forced  to 
believe,  on  her  own  showing,  to  be  your  mother,  consider 
whether  that  did  not  arise  out  of  the  personal  relations  be- 
tween you.  You  gradually  became  much  attached  to  her; 
she  gradually  became  much  attached  to  you.  It  was  on 
you,  personally  you,  as  I see  the  case,  that  she  conferred 
these  worldly  advantages;  it  was  from  her,  personally  her,, 
that  you  took  them.” 

“ She  supposed  nie,”  objected  Wilding,  shaking  his  head, 

“ to  have  a natural  claim  upon  her,  which  I had  not.  ” 


28 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


must  admit  that/’ replied  his  partner,  ^‘to  be  true. 
But  if  she  had  made  the  discovery  that  you  have  made,  six 
months  before  she  died,  do  you  think  it  would  have  can- 
celled the  years  you  were  together,  and  the  tenderness  that 
each  of  you  had  conceived  for  the  other,  each  on  increasing 
knowledge  of  the  other?  ” 

What  I think,”  said  Wilding,  simply  but  stoutly  hold- 
ing to  the  bare  fact,  can  no  more  change  the  truth  than  it 
can  bring  down  the  sky.  The  truth  is  that  I stand  pos- 
sessed of  what  was  meant  for  another  man.” 

^^He  may  be  dead,”  said  Vendale. 

He  may  be  alive,”  said  Wilding.  And  if  he  is  alive, 
have  I not — innocentl}^,  I grant  you  innocently — robbed  him 
of  enough?  Have  I not  robbed  him  of  all  the  happy  time 
that  I enjoyed  in  his  stead?  Have  I not  robbed  him  of  the 
exquisite  delight  that  filled  my  soul  when  that  dear  lady,” 
stretching  his  hand  towards  the  picture,  told  me  she  was 
my  mother?  Have  I not  robbed  him  of  all  the  care  she 
lavished  on  me?  Have  I not  even  robbed  him  of  all  the 
devotion  and  duty  that  I so  proudly  gave  to  her?  There- 
fore it  is  that  I ask  myself,  George  Vendale,  and  I ask  you, 
where  is  he?  What  has  become  of  him?  ” 

‘^Who  can  tell!” 

I must  try  to  find  out  who  can  tell.  I must  institute 
inquiries.  I must  never  desist  from  prosecuting  inquiries. 
I will  live  upon  the  interest  of  my  share — I ought  to  say 
his  share — in  this  business,  and  will  lay  up  the  rest  for 
him.  When  I find  him,  I may  perhaps  throw  myself  upon 
his  generosity;  but  I will  yield  up  all  to  him.  I will,  I 
swear.  As  I loved  and  honoured  her,”  said  Wilding,  rev- 
erently kissing  his  hand  towards  the  picture,  and  then  cov- 
ering his  eyes  with  it.  As  I loved  and  honoured  her,  and 
have  a world  of  reasons  to  be  grateful  to  her ! ” And  so 
broke  down  again*. 

His  partner  rose  from  the  chair  he  had  occupied,  and 
stood  beside  him  with  a hand  softly  laid  upon  his  shoulder. 
^AValter,  I knew  you  before  to-day  to  be  an  upright  man, 
with  a pure  conscience  and  a fine  heart.  It  is  very  fortu- 
nate for  me  that  I have  the  privilege  to  travel  on  in  life  so 
near  to  so  trustworthy  a man.  I am  thankful  for  it.  Use 
me  as  your  right  hand,  and  rely  upon  me  to  the  death. 
Don’t  think  the  worse  of  me  if  I protest  to  you  that  my 
uppermost  feeling  at  present  is  a confused,  you  may  call  it 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


29 


an  unreasonable,  one.  I feel  far  more  pity  for  the  lady  and 
for  you,  because  you  did  not  stand  in  your  supposed  rela- 
tions, than  I can  feel  for  the  unknown  man  (if  he  ever 
became  a man),  because  he  was  unconsciously  displaced. 
You  have  done  well  in  sending  for  Mr.  Bintrey.  What  I 
think  will  be  a part  of  his  advice,  I know  is  the  whole  of 
mine.  Do  not  move  a step  in  this  serious  matter  precipi- 
tately. The  secret  must  be  kept  among  us  with  greai 
strictness,  for  to  part  with  it  lightly  would  be  to  invite 
fraudulent  claims,  to  encourage  a host  of  knaves,  to  lei 
loose  a flood  of  perjury  and  plotting.  I have  no  more  to 
say  now,  Walter,  than  to  remind  you  that  you  sold  me  a 
share  in  your  business,  expressly  to  save  yourself  from 
more  work  than  your  present  health  is  fit  for,  and  that  I 
bought  It  expressly  to  do  work,  and  mean  to  do  it.” 

With  these  words,  and  a parting  grip  of  his  partner’s 
shoulder  that  gave  them  the  best  emphasis  they  could  have 
had,  George  Vendale  betook  himself  presently  to  the  count- 
ing-house, and  presently  afterwards  to  the  address  of  M. 
Jules  Obenreizer. 

As  he  turned  into  Soho-square,  and  directed  his  steps 
towards  its  north  side,  a deepened  colour  shot  across  his 
sun-browned  face,  which  Wilding,  if  he  had  been  a better 
observer,  or  had  been  less  occupied  with  his  own  trouble 
might  have  noticed  when  his  partner  read  aloud  a certain 
passage  in  their  Swiss  correspondent’s  letter,  which  he  had 
not  read  so  distinctly  as  the  rest. 

A curious  colony  of  mountaineers  has  long  been  enclosed 
within  that  small  flat  London  district  of  Soho.  Swiss 
watch-makers,  Swiss  silver-chasers,  Swiss  jewellers,  Swiss 
importers  of  Swiss  musical  boxes  and  Swiss  toys  of  various 
kinds,  draw  close  together  there.  Swiss  professors  of 
music,  painting,  and  languages;  Swiss  artificers  in  steady 
work;  Swiss  couriers,  and  other  Swiss  servants  chronically 
out  of  place ; industrious  Swiss  laundresses  and  clear-starch- 
ers;  mysteriously  existing  Swiss  of  both  sexes;  Swiss 
creditable  and  Swiss  discreditable;  Swiss  to  be  trusted  by 
all  means,  and  Swiss  to  be  trusted  by  no  means;  these  di- 
TOrse  Swiss  particles  are  attracted  to  a centre  in  the  district 
)f  Soho.  Shabby  Swiss  eating-houses,  coffee-houses,  and' 
lod^ng-houses,  Swiss  drinks  and  dishes,  Swiss  service  for 
Sundays,  and  Swiss  schools  for  week-days,  are  all  to  be 
ound  there.  Even  the  native-born  English  taverns  drive  a 


30 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


sort  of  broken-English  trade;  announcing  in  their  windows 
Swiss  whets  and  drams,  and  sheltering  in  their  bars  Swiss 
skirmishes  of  love  and  animosity  on  most  nights  in  the  year. 

When  the  new  partner  in  Wilding  and  Co.  rang  the  bell 
of  a door  bearing  the  blunt  inscription  Obenreizer  on  a 
brass  plate — the  inner  door  of  a substantial  house,  whose 
ground  story  was  devoted  to  the  sale  of  Swiss  clocks — he 
passed  at  once  into  domestic  Switzerland.  A white-tiled 
stove  for  winter-time  filled  the  fireplace  of  the  room  into 
which  he  was  shown,  the  room’s  bare  floor  was  laid  to- 
gether in  a neat  pattern  of  several  ordinary  woods,  the 
room  had  a prevalent  air  of  surface  bareness  and  much 
scrubbing;  and  the  little  square  of  flowery  carpet  by  the 
sofa,  and  the  velvet  chimney-board  with  its  capacious  clock 
and  vases  of  artificial  flowers,  contended  with  that  tone,  as 
if,  in  bringing  out  the  whole  effect,  a Parisian  had  adapted 
a dairy  tx)  domestic  purposes. 

Mimic  water  was  dropping  off  a mill-wheel  under  the 
clock.  The  visitor  had  not  stood  before  it,  following  it 
with  his  eyes,  a minute,  when  M.  Obenreizer,  at  his  elbow, 
startled  him  by  saying,  in  very  good  English,  very  slightly 
clipped : How  do  you  do?  So  glad ! ” 

“ I beg  your  pardon.  I didn’t  hear  you  come  in.” 

^^Not  at  all!  Sit,  please.” 

Keleasing  his  visitor’s  two  arms,  which  he  had  lightly 
pinioned  at  the  elbows  by  way  of  embrace,  M.  Obenreizer 
also  sat,  remarking,  with  a smile:  You  are  well?  So 

glad ! ” and  touching  his  elbows  again. 

don’t  know,”  said  Yendale,  after  exchange  of  saluta- 
tions, whether  you  may  yet  have  heard  of  me  from  your 
house  at  Neuchatel?  ” 

“ Ah,  yes ! ” 

In  connection  with  Wilding  and  Co.  ? ” 

Ah,  surely ! ” 

Is  it  not  odd  that  I should  come  to  you,  in  London 
here,  as  one  of  the  Firm  of  Wilding  and  Co.,  to  pay  the 
Firm’s  respects?  ” 

^^Not  at  all!  What  did  I always  observe  when  we  were 
on  the  mountains?  We  call  them  vast;  but  the  world  is  so 
little.  So  little  is  the  world,  that  one  cannot  keep  away 
from  persons.  There  are  so  few  persons  in  the  world,  that 
they  continually  cross  and  recross.  So  very  little  is  the 
world,  that  one  cannot  get  rid  of  a person.  Not,”  touching 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


3J! 


his  elbows  again,  with  an  ingratiatory  smile,  ^Hhat  one 
would  desire  to  get  rid  of  you.” 
hope  not,  M.  Obenreizer.” 

Please  call  me,  in  your  country,  Mr.  I call  myself  so, 
for  I love  your  country.  If  I could  be  English ! But  I am 
born.  And  you?  Though  descended  from  so  fine  a fam- 
ily, you  have  had  the  condescension  to  come  into  trade? 
Stop  though.  Wines?  Is  it  trade  in  England  or  profes^ 
sion?  Not  fine  art?  ” 

‘‘Mr.  Obenreizer,”  returned  Vendale,  somewhat  out  of 
countenance,  “ I was  but  a silly  young  fellow,  just  of  age, 
when  I first  had  the  pleasure  of  travelling  with  you,  and 
when  you  and  I and  Mademoiselle  your  niece — who  is 
well?  ” 

“Thank  you.  Who  is  well.” 

“ — Shared  some  slight  glacier  dangers  together.  If, 
with  a boy’s  vanity,  I rather  vaunted  my  family,  I hope  I 
did  so  as  a kind  of  introduction  of  myself.  It  was  very 
Aveak,  and  in  very  bad  taste;  but  perhaps  you  know  our 
English  proverb,  ‘ Live  and  learn.’  ” 

“ You  make  too  much  of  it,”  returned  the  Swiss.  “ And 
what  the  devil!  After  all,  yours  was  a fine  family.” 
George  Vendale ’s  laugh  betrayed  a little  vexation  as  he 
rejoined:  “Well!  I was  strongly  attached  to  my  parents, 
and  when  we  first  travelled  together,  Mr.  Obenreizer,  I was 
in  the  first  flush  of  coming  into  what  my  father  and  mother 
left  me.  So  I hope  it  may  have  been,  after  all,  more 
youthful  openness  of  speech  and  heart  than  boastfulness.” 
“All  openness  of  speech  and  heart!  No  boastfulness!” 
cried  Obenreizer.  “ You  tax  yourself  too  heavily.  You 
tax  yourself,  my  faith!  as  if  you  was  your  Government 
taxing  you ! Besides,  it  commenced  with  me.  I remem- 
ber, that  evening  in  the  boat  upon  the  lake,  floating  among 
the  reflections  of  the  mountains  and  valleys,  the  crags  and 
pine  woods,  which  were  my  earliest  remembrance,  I drew 
a word-picture  of  my  sordid  childhood.  Of  our  poor  hut, 
by  the  waterfall  which  my  mother  showed  to  travellers ; of 
the  cowshed  where  I slept  with  the  cow;  of  my  idiot  half- 
brother  always  sitting  at  the  door,  or  limping  down  the 
Pass  to  beg;  of  my  half-sister  always  spinning,  and  resting 
her  enormous  goitre  on  a great  stone;  of  my  being  a fam- 
ished naked  little  wretch  of  two  or  three  years,  when  they 
were  men  and  women  with  hard  hands  to  beat  me,  I,  the 


32 


NO  THOROUGHFARE 


only  child  of  my  father’s  second  marriage — if  it  even  was 
a marriage.  What  more  natural  than  for  you  to  compare 
notes  with  me,  and  say,  ^ We  are  as  one  by  age;  at  that 
same  time  1 sat  upon  my  mother’s  lap  in  my  father’s 
carriage,  rolling  through  the  rich  English  streets,  all  lux- 
ury surrounding  me,  all  squalid  poverty  kept  far  from  me. 
Such  is  my  earliest  remembrance  as  opposed  to  yours ! ’ ” 

Mr.  Obenreizer  was  a black-haired  young  man  of  a dark 
complexion,  through  whose  swarthy  skin  no  red  glow  ever 
shone.  When  colour  would  have  come  into  another  cheek, 
a hardly  discernible  beat  would  come  into  his,  as  if  the 
machinery  for  bringing  up  the  ardent  blood  were  there,  but 
the  machinery  were  dry.  He  was  robustly  made,  well  pro- 
portioned, and  had  handsome  features.  Many  would  have 
perceived  that  some  surface  change  in  him  would  have  set 
them  more  at  their  ease  with  him,  without  being  able  to 
define  what  change.  If  his  lips  could  have  been  made 
much  thicker,  and  his  neck  much  thinner,  they  would  have 
found  their  want  supplied. 

But  the  great  Obenreizer  peculiarity  was,  that  a certain 
nameless  film  would  come  over  his  eyes — apparently  by  the 
action  of  his  own  will — which  would  impenetrably  veil,  not 
only  from  those  tellers  of  tales,  but  from  his  face  at  large, 
every  expression  save  one  of  attention.  It  by  no  means 
followed  that  his  attention  should  be  wholly  given  to  the 
person  with  whom  he  spoke,  or  even  wholly  bestowed  on 
present  sounds  and  objects.  Bather,  it  was  a comprehen- 
sive watchfulness  of  everything  he  had  in  his  own  mind, 
and  everything  that  he  knew  to  be,  or  suspected  to  be,  in 
the  minds  of  other  men. 

At  this  stage  of  the  conversation,  Mr.  Obenreizer’ s film 
came  over  him. 

^^The  object  of  my  present  visit,”  said  Vendale,  ^Hs,  I 
need  hardly  say,  to  assure  you  of  the  friendliness  of  Wild- 
ing and  Oo.,  and  of  the  goodness  of  your  credit  with  us, 
and  of  our  desire  to  be  of  service  to  you.  We  hope  shortly 
to  offer  you  our  hospitality.  Things  are  not  quite  in  train 
with  us  yet,  for  my  partner,  Mr.  Wilding,  is  reorganising 
the  domestic  part  of  our  establishment,  and  is  interrupted 
by  some  private  affairs.  You  don’t  know  Mr.  Wilding,  I 
believe?  ” 

Mr.  Obenreizer  did  not. 

You  must  come  together  soon.  He  will  be  glad  to  have 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


33 


made  your  acquaintance,  and  I think  I may  predict  that 
you  will  be  glad  to  have  made  his.  You  have  not  been 
long  established  in  London,  I suppose,  Mr.  Obenreizer?  ” 
‘‘It  is  only  now  that  I have  undertaken  this  agency.” 
“Mademoiselle  your  niece — is — not  married?  ” 

“Not  married.” 

George  Vendale  glanced  about  him,  as  if  for  any  tokens 
of  her. 

“ She  has  been  in  London?  ” 

“ She  is  in  London.” 

“ When,  and  where,  might  I have  the  honour  of  recalling 
myself  to  her  remembrance?  ” 

Mr.  Obenreizer,  discarding  his  film  and  touching  his  visi- 
tor’s elbows  as  before,  said  lightly:  “Come  up-stairs.” 
Fluttered  enough  by  the  suddenness  with  which  the  in- 
terview he  had  sought  was  coming  upon  him  after  all, 
George  Vendale  followed  up-stairs.  In  a room  over  the 
chamber  he  had  just  quitted — a room  also  Swiss-appointed 
— a young  lady  sat  near  one  of  three  windows,  working  at 
an  embroidery-frame;  and  an  older  lady  sat  with  her  face 
turned  close  to  another  white-tiled  stove  (though  it  was 
summer,  and  the  stove  was  not  lighted),  cleaning  gloves. 
The  young  lady  wore  an  unusual  quantity  of  fair  bright 
hair,  very  prettily  braided  about  a rather  rounder  white 
forehead  than  the  average  English  type,  and  so  her  face 
might  have  been  a shade — or  say  a light — rounder  than  the 
average  English  face,  and  her  figure  slightly  rounder  than 
the  figure  of  the  average  English  girl  at  nineteen.  A re- 
markable indication  of  freedom  and  grace  of  limb,  in  her 
quiet  attitude,  and  a wonderful  purity  and  freshness  of 
colour  in  her  dimpled  face  and  bright  grey  eyes,  seemed 
fraught  with  mountain  air.  Switzerland,  too,  though  the 
general  fashion  of  her  dress  was  English,  peeped  out  of  the 
fanciful  bodice  she  wore,  and  lurked  in  the  curious  clocked 
red  stocking,  and  in  its  little  silver- buckled  shoe.  As  to 
the  elder  lady,  sitting  with  her  feet  apart  upon  the  lower 
brass  ledge  of  the  stove,  supporting  a lapful  of  gloves 
while  she  cleaned  one  stretched  on  her  left  hand,  she  was  a 
true  Swiss  impersonation  of  another  kind;  from  the  breadth 
of  her  cushion-like  back,  and  the  ponderosity  of  her  re*- 
spectable  legs  (if  the  word  be  admissible),  to  the  black  vel- 
vet band  tied  tightly  round  her  throat  for  the  repression  of 
a rising  tendency  to  goitre;  or,  higher  still,  to  her  great 


34 


NO  TFIOROUGIIFARE. 


copper-coloured  gold  earrings;  or,  higher  still,  to  her  head- 
dress of  black  gauze  stretched  on  wire. 

''Miss  Marguerite,’^  said  Obenreizer  to  the  young  lady, 
" do  you  recollect  this  gentleman?  ” 

"I  think,”  she  answered,  rising  from  her  seat,  surprised 
and  a little  confused:  "it  is  Mr.  Vendale?” 

"I  think  it  is,”  said  Obenreizer,  dryly.  "Permit  me, 
Mr.  Vendale.  Madame  Dor.” 

The  elder  lady  by  the  stove,  with  the  glove  stretched  on 
her  left  hand,  like  a glover’s  sign,  half  got  up,  half  looked 
over  her  broad  shoulder,  and  wholly  plumped  down  again 
and  rubbed  away. 

"Madame  Dor,”  said  Obenreizer,  smiling,  "is  so  kind  as 
to  keep  me  free  from  stain  or  tear.  Madame  Dor  humours 
my  weakness  for  being  always  neat,  and  devotes  her  time 
to  removing  every  one  of  my  specks  and  spots.” 

Madame  Dor,  with  the  stretched  glove  in  the  air,  and 
her  eyes  closely  scrutinising  its  palm,  discovered  a tough 
spot  in  Mr.  Obenreizer  at  that  moment,  and  rubbed  hard  at 
him.  George  Vendale  took  his  seat  by  the  embroidery- 
frame  (having  first  taken  the  fair  right  hand  that  his  er- 
trance  had  checked),  and  glanced  at  the  gold  cross  that 
dipped  into  the  bodice,  with  something  of  the  devotion  of  a 
pilgrim  who  had  reached  his  shrine  at  last.  Obenreizer 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  with  his  thumbs  in  his 
waistcoat-pockets,  and  became  filmy. 

"He  was  saying  down-stairs.  Miss  Obenreizer,” observed 
Vendale,  "that  the  world  is  so  small  a place,  that  people 
cannot  escape  one  another.  I have  found  it  much  too  large 
for  me  since  I saw  you  last.” 

" Have  you  travelled  so  far,  then?  ” she  inquired. 

"Not  so  far,  for  I have  only  gone  back  to  Switzerland 
each  year;  but  I could  have  wished — and  indeed  I have 
wished  very  often — that  the  little  world  did  not  afford  such 
opportunities  for  long  escapes  as  it  does.  If  it  had  been 
less,  I might  have  found  my  fellow-travellers  sooner,  you 
know.” 

The  pretty  Marguerite  coloured,  and  very  slightly 
glanced  in  the  direction  of  Madame  Dor. 

"You find  us  at  length,  Mr.  Vendale.  Perhaps  you  may 
lose  us  again.” 

" I trust  not.  The  curious  coincidence  that  has  enabled 
me  to  find  you,  encourages  me  to  hope  not.” 


NO  THOl^OUGHFARE. 


35 


' ‘^What  is  that  coincidence,  sir,  if  yon  please?”  A 
j dainty  little  native  touch  in  this  turn  of  speech,  and  in  its 
tqpe,  made  it  perfectly  captivating,  thought  George  Ven- 
dale,  when  again  he  noticed  an  instantaneous  glance  tow- 
ards Madame  Dor.  A caution  seemed  to  be  conveyed  in 
it,  rapid  flash  though  it  was;  so  he  quietly  took  heed  of 
[ Madame  Dor  from  that  time  forth. 

It  is  that  I happen  to  have  become  a partner  in  a house 
of  business  in  London,  to  which  Mr.  Obenreizer  happens 
this  very  day  to  be  expressly  recommended : and  that,  too, 
by  another  house  of  business  in  Switzerland,  in  which  (as 
it  turns  out)  we  both  have  a commercial  interest.  He  has 
not  told  you?  ” 

‘^Ah!”  cried  Obenreizer,  striking  in,  filmless.  ^‘No. 
I had  not  told  Miss  Marguerite.  The  world  is  so  small 
and  so  monotonous  that  a surprise  is  worth  having  in  such 
a little  jog-trot  place.  It  is  as  he  tells  you.  Miss  Marguer- 
ite. He,  of  so  fine  a family,  and  so  proudly  bred,  has  con- 
descended to  trade.  To  trade!  Like  us  poor  peasants 
who  have  risen  from  ditches ! ” 

A cloud  crept  over  the  fair  brow,  and  she  cast  down  her 
eyes. 

Why,  it  is  good  for  trade ! ” pursued  Obenreizer,  en- 
thusiastically. It  ennobles  trade ! It  is  the  misfortune 
of  trade,  it  is  its  vulgarity,  that  any  low  people — for  ex- 
ample, we  poor  peasants — may  take  to  it,  and  -climb  by  it. 
See  you,  my  dear  Vendale  1 ” He  spoke  with  great  energy. 
‘^The  father  of  Miss  Marguerite,  my  eldest  half-brother, 
more  than  two  times  your  age  or  mine,  if  living  now, 
wandered  without  shoes,  almost  without  rags,  from  that 
wretched  Pass — wandered — wandered — got  to  be  fed  with 
the  mules  and  dogs  at  an  Inn  in  the  main  valley  far  away 
, — got  to  be  Boy  there — got  to  be  Ostler — got  to  be  Waiter 
— got  to  be  Cook — got  to  be  Landlord.  As  Landlord,  he 
took  me  (could  he  take  the  idiot  beggar  his  brother,  or  the 
spinning  monstrosity  his  sister?)  to  put  as  pupil  to  the  fa- 
^mous  watchmaker,  his  neighbour  and  friend.  His  wife 
dies  when  Miss  Marguerite  is  born.  What  is  his  will,  and 
what  are  his  words,  to  me,  when  he  dies,  she  being  between 
girl  and  woman?  ‘ All  for  Marguerite,  except  so  much  by* 
the  year  for  you.  You  are  young,  but  I make  her  your 
"ward,  for  you  were  of  the  obscurest  and  the  poorest  peas- 
antry, and  so  was  I,  and  so  was  her  mother;  were  ab- 


36 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


jcct  pGasants  all,  and  you  will  remember  it.  ^ The  thing  is 
equally  true  of  most  of  my  countrymen,  now  in  trade  in  this 
your  London  quarter  of  Soho.  Peasants  once;  low-born 
drudging  Swiss  peasants.  Then  how  good  and  great  for 
trade : here,  from  having  been  warm,  he  became  playfully 

jubilant,  and  touched  the  young  wine-merchant’s  elbows 
again  with  his  light  embrace : to  be  exalted  by  gentlemen ! ” 

I do  not  think  so,”  said  Marguerite,  with  a flushed 
cheek,  and  a look  away  from  the  visitor,  that  was  almost 
defiant.  I think  it  is  as  much  exalted  by  us  peasants.” 

‘‘Fie,  fie.  Miss  Marguerite,”  said  Obenreizer.  “You 
speak  in  proud  England.” 

“I  speak  in  proud  earnest,”  she  answered,  quietly  re- 
suming her  work,  “and  I am  not  English,  but  a Swiss 
peasant’s  daughter.” 

There  was  a dismissal  of  the  subject  in  her  words,  which 
Vendale  could  not  contend  against.  He  only  said  in  an 
earnest  manner,  “ I most  heartily  agree  with  you.  Miss 
Obenreizer,  and  I have  already  said  so,  as  Mr.  Obenreizer 
will  bear  witness,”  which  he  by  no  means  did,  “in  this 
house.” 

Now,  Vendale’s  eyes  were  quick  eyes,  and  sharply  watch- 
ing Madame  Dor  by  times,  noted  something  in  the  broad 
back  view  of  that  lady.  There  was  considerable  panto- 
mimic expression  in  her  glove-cleaning.  It  had  been  very 
softly  done  when  he  spoke  with  Marguerite,  or  it  had  alto- 
gether stopped,  like  the  action  of  a listener.  When  Oben- 
reizer’s peasant-speech  came  to  an  end,  she  rubbed  most 
vigorously,  as  if  applauding  it.  And  once  or  twice,  as  the 
glove  (which  she  always  held  before  her,  a little  about  her 
face)  turned  in  the  air,  or  as  this  finger  went  down,  or  that 
went  up,  he  even  fancied  that  it  made  some  telegraphic  com- 
munication to  Obenreizer : whose  back  was  certainly  never 
turned  upon  it,  though  he  did  not  seem  at^all  to  heed  it. 

Vendale  observed,  too,  that  in  Marguerite’s  dismissal  of 
the  subject  twice  forced  upon  him  to  his  misrepresentation, 
there  was  an  indignant  treatment  of  her  guardian  which  she 
tried  to  check : as  though  she  would  have  fiamed  out  against 
him,  but  for  the  influence  of  fear.  He  also  observed — 
though  this  was  not  much — that  he  never  advanced  within 
the  distance  of  her  at  which  he  first  placed  himself:  as 
though  there  were  limits  fixed  between  them.  Neither  had 
he  ever  spoken  of  her  without  the  prefix  “Miss,”  though 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


37 


whenever  he  uttered  it,  it  was  with  the  faintest  trace  of  an 
air  of  mockery.  And  now  it  occurred  to  Vendale  for  the 
first  time  that  something  curious  in  the  man  which  he  had 
never  before  been  able  to  define,  was  definable  as  a certain 
subtle  essence  of  mockery  that  eluded  touch  or  analysis. 
He  felt  convinced  that  Marguerite  was  in  some  sort  a pris- 
oner as  to  her  free  will — though  she  held  her  own  against 
those  two  combined,  by  the  force  of  her  character,  which 
was  nevertheless  inadequate  to  her  release.  To  feel  con- 
vinced of  this,  was  not  to  feel  less  disposed  to  love  her 
than  he  had  always  been.  In  a word,  he  was  desperately 
in  love  with  her,  and  thoroughly  determined  to  pursue  the 
opportunity  which  had  opened  at  last. 

For  the  present,  he  merely  touched  upon  the  pleasure 
that  Wilding  and  Co.  would  soon  have  in  entreating  Miss 
' Obenreizer  to  honour  their  establishment  with  her  presence 
— a curious  old  place,  though  a bachelor  house  withal — and 
so  did  not  protract  his  visit  beyond  such  a visit’s  ordinary 
i length.  Going  down-stairs,  conducted  by  his  host,  he 
found  the  Obenreizer  counting-house  at  the  back  of  the  en- 
trance-hall, and  several  shabby  men  in  outlandish  garments, 
hanging  about,  whom  Obenreizer  put  aside  that  he  might 
pass,  with  a few  words  in  'patois. 

‘‘Countrymen,”  he  explained,  as  he  attended  Yendale  to 
the  door.  “Poor  compatriots.  Grateful  and  attached, 
like  dogs ! Good-bye.  To  meet  again.  So  glad ! ” 

Two  more  light  touches  on  his  elbows  dismissed  him  into 
the  street. 

Sweet  Marguerite  at  her  frame,  and  Madame  Dor’s  broad 
back  at  her  telegraph,  floated  before  him  to  Cripple  Corner. 
On  his  arrival  there.  Wilding  was  closeted  with  Bintrey. 
The  cellar  doors  happening  to  be  open,  Vendale  lighted  a 
candle  in  a cleft  stick,  and  went  down  for  a cellarous  stroll. 
Graceful  Marguerite  floated  before  him  faithfully,  but  Ma- 
dame Dor’s  broad  back  remained  outside. 

The  vaults  were  very  spacious,  and  very  old.  There  had 
been  a stone  crypt  down  there,  when  bygones  were  not  by- 
gones; some  said,  part  of  a monkish  refectory;  some  said, 
of  a chapel;  some  said,  of  a Pagan  temple.  It  was  all 
one  now.  Let  who  would,  make  what  he  liked  of  a crum-' 
bled  pillar  and  a broken  arch  or  so.  Old  time  had  made 
what  he  liked  of  it,  and  was  quite  indifferent  to  contradic 
tion. 


.18 


NO  THOROUGIII^'ARE. 


The  close  air,  the  musty  smell,  and  the  thunderous  rum- 
bling in  the  streets  above,  as  being  out  of  the  routine  of  or- 
dinary life,  went  well  enough  with  the  picture  of  pretty 
Marguerite  holding  her  own  against  those  two.  So  Ven- 
dale  went  on  until,  at  a turning  in  the  vaults,  he  saw  a 
light  like  the  light  he  carried. 

“ Oh ! You  are  here,  are  you,  Joey?  ” 

“Oughtn’t  it  rather  to  go,  ‘ Oh!  Fow’re  here,  are  you. 
Master  George?  ’ For  it’s  my  business  to  be  here.  But  it 
ain’t  yourn.” 

“Don’t  grumble,  Joey.” 

“Oh!  / don’t  grumble,”  returned  the  Cellarman.  “If 
anything  grumbles,  it’s  what  I’ve  took  in  through  the 
pores;  it  ain’t  me.  Have  a care  as  something  in  you  don’t 
begin  a-grumbling.  Master  George.  Stop  here  long  enough 
for  the  wapours  to  work,  and  they’ll  be  at  it.” 

His  present  occupation  consisted  of  poking  his  head  into 
the  bins,  making  measurements  and  mental  calculations, 
and  entering  them  in  a rhinoceros-hide-looking  note-book, 
like  a piece  of  himself. 

“They’ll  be  at  it,”  he  resumed,  laying  the  wooden  rod 
that  he  measured  with,  across  two  casks,  entering  his  last 
calculation,  and  straightening  his  back,  “ trust  ’em ! And  so 
you’ve  regularly  come  into  the  business.  Master  George?” 
“Eegularly.  I hope  you  don’t  object,  Joey?” 

I don’t,  bless  you.  But  Wapours  objects  that  you’re 
too  young.  You’re  both  on  you  too  young.” 

“We  shall  get  over  that  objection  day  by  day,  Joey.” 
“Ay,  Master  George;  but  I shall  day  by  day  get  over 
the  objection  that  I’m  too  old,  and  so  I shan’t  be  capable 
of  seeing  much  improvement  in  you.” 

The  retort  so  tickled  Joey  Ladle  that  he  grunted  forth  a 
laugh  and  delivered  it  again,  grunting  forth  another  laugh 
after  the  second  edition  of  “ improvement  in  you.  ” 

“But  what’s  no  laughing  matter.  Master  George,”  he  re- 
sumed, straightening  his  back  once  more,  “ is,  that  Young 
Master  Wilding  has  gone  and  changed  the  luck.  Mark  my 
words.  He  has  changed  the  luck,  and  he’ll  find  it  out.  7 
ain’t  been  down  here  all  my  life  for  nothing!  /know,  by 
what  I notices  down  here,  when  it’s  a going  to  rain,  when 
it’s  a going  to  hold  up,  when  it’s  a going  to  blow,  when  it’s 
a going  to  be  calm.  1 know,  by  what  I notices  down  here, 
when  the  luck’s  changed,  quite  as  well.” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


39 


Has  this  growth  on  the  roof  anything  to  do  with  your 
divination!”  asked  Vendale,  holding  his  light  towards  a 
gloomy  ragged  growth  of  dark  fungus,  pendent  from  the 
marches  with  a very  disagreeable  and  repellent  effect.  We 
are  famous  for  this  growth  in  this  vault,  aren’t  we?  ” 

We  are,  Master  George,”  replied  Joey  Ladle,  moving 
a step  or  two  away,  ‘‘and  if  you’ll  be  advised  by  me,  you’ll 
let  it  alone.” 

Taking  up  the  rod  just  now  laid  across  the  two  casks, 
and  faintly  moving  the  languid  fungus  with  it,  Vendale 
asked,  ‘^Ay,  indeed?  Why  so?” 

“ Why,  not  so  much  because  it  rises  from  the  casks  of 
wine,  and  may  leave  you  to  judge  what  sort  of  stuff  a Cel- 
larman  takes  into  himself  when  he  walks  in  the  same  all 
the  days  of  his  life,  nor  yet  so  much  because  at  a stage  of 
its  growth  it’s  maggots,  and  you’ll  fetch  ’em  down  upon 
you,”  returned  Joey  Ladle,  still  keeping  away,  “as  for  an- 
other reason.  Master  George.” 

I “ What  other  reason?  ” 

' “(I  wouldn’t  keep  on  touchin’  it,  if  I was  you,  sir.) 

I’ll  tell  you  if  you’ll  come  out  of  the  place.  First,  take  a 
look  at  its  colour.  Master  George.” 

“I  am  doing  so.” 

“Done,  sir.  Now,  come  out  of  the  place.” 

He  moved  away  with  his  light,  and  Vendale  followed 
with  his.  When  Vendale  came  up  with  him,  and  they  were 
going  back  together,  Vendale,  eying  him  as  they  walked 
through  the  arches,  said:  “Well,  Joey?  The  colour.” 

“Is  it  like  clotted  blood.  Master  George?” 

“Like  enough,  perhaps.” 

“ More  than  enough,  I think,  ” muttered  Joey  Ladle,  shak- 
ing his  head  solemnly. 

“Well,  say  it  is  like;  say  it  is  exactly  like.  What 
then?  ” 

“ Master  George,  they  do  say ” 

! “Who?” 

“How  should  I know  who?”  rejoined  the  Cellarman, 
apparently  much  exasperated  by  the  unreasonable  nature  of 
the  question.  “Them!  Them  as  says  pretty  well  every- 
thing, you  know.  How  should  I know  who  They  are,  if 
you  don’t?  ” 

“True.  Goon.” 

“ They  do  say  that  the  man  that  gets  by  any  accident  a 


40 


NO  THOKOUGHFARE. 


piece  of  that  dark  growth  right  upon  his  breast,  will,  for 
sure  and  certain,  die  by  Murder.’^ 

As  Vendale  laughingly  stopped  to  meet  the  Cellarman’s 
eyes,  which  he  had  fastened  on  his  light  while  dreamily 
saying  those  words,  he  suddenly  became  conscious  of  being 
struck  upon  his  own  breast  by  a heavy  hand.  Instantly 
following  with  his  eyes  the  action  of  the  hand  that  struck 
him — which  was  his  companion’s — he  saw  that  it  had 
beaten  off  his  breast  a web  or  clot  of  the  fungus,  even  then 
floating  to  the  ground. 

For  a moment  he  turned  upon  the  Cellarman  almost  as 
scared  a look  as  the  Cellarman  turned  upon  him.  But  in 
another  moment  they  had  reached  the  daylight  at  the  foot 
of  the  cellar- steps,  and  before  he  cheerfully  sprang  up 
them,  he  blew  out  his  candle  and  the  superstition  together, 

EXIT  WILDING. 

On  the  morning  of  the  next  day.  Wilding  went  out  alone, 
after  leaving  a message  with  his  clerk.  ‘‘  If  Mr.  Vendale 
should  ask  for  me,”  he  said,  or  if  Mr.  Bin  trey  should  call, 
tell  them  I am  gone  to  the  Foundling.”  All  that  his  part- 
ner had  said  to  him,  all  that  his  lawyer,  following  on  the 
same  side,  could  urge,  had  left  him  persisting  unshaken  in 
his  own  point  of  view.  To  find  the  lost  man,  whose  place 
he  had  usurped,  was  now  the  paramount  interest  of  his  life, 
and  to  inquire  at  the  Foundling  was  plainly  to  take  the  first 
step  in  the  direction  of  discovery.  To  the  Foundling,  ac- 
cordingly, the  wine-merchant  now  went. 

^ The  once  familiar  aspect  of  the  building  was  altered  to 
him,  as  the  look  of  the  portrait  over  the  chimney-piece  was 
altered  to  him.  His  one  dearest  association  with  the  place 
which  had  sheltered  his  childhood  had  been  broken  away 
from  it  for  ever.  A strange  reluctance  possessed  him, 
when  he  stated  his  business  at  the  door.  His  heart  ached 
as  he  sat  alone  in  the  waiting-room  while  the  Treasurer  of 
the  institution  was  being  sent  for  to  see  him.  When  the  j 
interview  began,  it  was  only  by  a painful  effort  that  he 
could  compose  himself  sufficiently  to  mention  the  nature  of  | 
his  errand.  i 

The  Treasurer  listened  with  a face  which  promised  all 
needful  attention,  and  promised  nothing  more. 

‘^We  are  obliged  to  be  cautious,”  he  said,  when  it  came  I 


NO  THOROUGHFARE.  41 

0 Ills  turn  to  speak,  about  all  inquiries  which  are  made 
strangers.” 

“You  can  hardly  consider  me  a stranger,”  answered 
IV’ilding,  simply.  “I  was  one  of  your  poor  lost  children 
lere,  in  the  bygone  time.” 

' The  Treasurer  politely  rejoined  that  this  circumstance 
^spired  him  with  a special  interest  in  his  visitor.  But  he 
llressed,  nevertheless,  for  that  visitor’s  motive  in  making 
lis  inquiry.  Without  further  preface.  Wilding  told  him 
is  motive,  suppressing  nothing. 

The  Treasurer  rose,  and  led  the  way  into  the  room  in 
yhich  the  registers  of  the  institution  were  kept.  “All  the 
iformation  which  our  books  can  give  is  heartily  at  your 
ervice,”  he  said.  “After  the  time  that  has  elapsed,  I am 
fraid  it  is  the  only  information  we  have  to  offer  you.” 
ij  The  books  were  consulted,  and  the  entry  was  found,  ex- 
pressed as  follows : 

“3d  March,  1836.  Adopted,  and  removed  from  the 
foundling  Hospital,  a male  infant,  named  Walter  Wilding. 
Tame  and  condition  of  the  person  adopting  the  child — ^Mrs. 
ane  Ann  Miller,  widow.  Address— Lime-Tree  Lodge, 
Iroombridge  Wells.  References  — the  Reverend  John 
darker,  Groombridge  Wells;  and  Messrs.  Giles,  Jeremie, 
^^nd  Giles,  bankers,  Lombard-street.” 

“ Is  that  all?  ” asked  the  wine-merchant.  “ Had  you  no 
fter-communication  with  Mrs.  Miller?  ” 

“None — or  some  reference  to  it  must  have  appeared  in 
lis  book.” 

“ May  I take  a copy  of  the  entry?  ” 

“ Certainly ! You  are  a little  agitated.  Let  me  make 
^le  copy  for  you.” 

“My  only  chance,  I suppose,”  said  Wilding,  looking 
idly  at  the  copy,  “is  to  inquire  at  Mrs.  Miller’s  residence, 
rid  to  try  if  her  references  can  help  me?  ” 

“That  is  the  only  chance  I see  at  present,”  answered  the 
treasurer.  “I  heartily  wish  I could  have  been  of  some 
irther  assistance  to  you.” 

' With  those  farewell  words  to  comfort  him.  Wilding  set 
)rth  on  the  journey  of  investigation  which  began  from  the 
oundling  doors.  The  first  stage  to  make  for,  was  plainly 
le  house  of  business  of  the  bankers  in  Lombard-street, 
wo  of  the  partners  in  the  firm  were  inaccessible  to  chance- 
-sitors  when  he  asked  for  them.  The  third,  after  raising 


42 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


certain  inevitable  difficulties,  consented  to  let  a clerk  ex- 
amine the  Ledger  marked  with  the  initial  letter 
The  account  of  Mrs.  Miller,  widow,  of  Groombridge  Wells, 
was  found.  Two  long  lines,  in  faded  ink,  were  drawn 
across  it;  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  there  appeared  this 
note:  ‘‘ Account  closed,  September  30th,  1837.’^ 

So  the  first  stage  of  the  journey  was  reached — and  so  it 
ended  in  No  Thoroughfare!  After  sending  a note  to  Crip- 
ple Corner  to  inform  his  partner  that  his  absence  might  be 
prolonged  for  some  hours.  Wilding  took  his  place  in  the 
train,  and  started  for  the  second  stage  on  the  journey — 
Mrs.  Miller’s  residence  at  Groombridge  Wells. 

Mothers  and  children  travelled  with  him;  mothers  and 
children  met  each  other  at  the  station;  mothers  and  chil- 
dren were  in  the  shops  when  he  entered  them  to  inquire  for 
Lime-Tree  Lodge.  Everywhere,  the  nearest  and  dearest  of 
human  relations  showed  itself  happily  in  the  happy  light 
of  day.  Everywhere,  he  was  reminded  of  the  treasured 
delusion  from  which  he  had  been  awakened  so  cruelly — of, 
the  lost  memory  which  had  passed  from  him  like  a reflec- 
tion from  a glass. 

Inquiring  here,  inquiring  there,  he  could  hear  of  no  such 
place  as  Lime-Tree  Lodge.  Passing  a house-agent’s  office,  i 
he  went  in  wearily,  and  put  the  question  for  the  last  time.. 
The  house-agent  pointed  across  the  street  to  a dreary  man- 
sion of  many  windows,  which  might  have  been  a manu- 
factory, but  which  was  an  hotel.  That’s  where  Lime- 
Tree  Lodge  stood,  sir,”  said  the  man,  ^Hen  years  ago.” 

The  second  stage  reached,  and  No  Thoroughfare  again! 

But  one  chance  was  left.  The  clerical  reference,  Mr. 
Harker,  still  remained  to  be  found.  Customers  coming  in 
at  the  moment  to  occupy  the  house-agent’s  attention.  Wild- 
ing went  down  the  street,  and,  entering  a bookseller’s  shop, 
asked  if  he  could  be  informed  of  the  Reverend  John  Mar- 
ker’s present  address. 

The  bookseller  looked  unaffectedly  shocked  and  aston- 
ished,  and  made  no  answer. 

Wilding  repeated  his  question. 

The  bookseller  took  up  from  his  counter  a prim  little 
volume  in  a binding  of  sober  grey.  He  handed  it  to  his 
visitor,  open  at  the  title-page.  Wilding  read  : 

“The  mart3U*dom  of  the  Reverend  John  Harker  in  New 
Zealand.  Related  by  a former  member  of  his  flock.” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


43 


Wilding  put  the  book  down  on  the  counter.  I beg  your 
pardon,”  he  said,  thinking  a little,  perhaps,  of  his  own 
present  martyrdom  while  he  spoke.  The  silent  bookseller 
acknowledged  the  apology  by  a bow.  Wilding  went  out. 

Third  and  last  stage,  and  No  Thoroughfare  for  the  third 
and  last  time. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done;  there  was  abso- 
lutely no  choice  but  to  go  back  to  London,  defeated  at  all 
points.  From  time  to  time  on  the  return  journey,  the 
svine-merchant  looked  at  his  copy  of  the  entry  in  the 
B^oundling  Kegister.  There  is  one  among  the  many  forms 
)f  despair — perhaps  the  most  pitiable  of  all — which  per- 
usts  in  disguising  itself  as  Hope.  Wilding  checked  him- 
;elf  in  the  act  of  throwing  the  useless  morsel  of  paper  out 
)f  the  carriage  window.  ^Ht  may  lead  to  something  yet,” 
le  thought.  ''While  I live,  I won’t  part  with  it.  When 
[ die,  my  executors  shall  find  it  sealed  up  with  my  will.” 

Now,  the  mention  of  his  will  set  the  good  wine-merchant 
m a new  track  of  thought,  without  diverting  his  mind  from 
ts  engrossing  subject.  He  must  make  his  will  immedi- 
itely. 

The  application  of  the  phrase.  No  Thoroughfare,  to  the 
;ase  had  originated  with  Mr.  Bintrey.  In  their  first  long 
inference  following  the  discovery,  that  sagacious  personage 
lad  a hundred  times  repeated,  with  an  obstructive  shake  of 
he  head,  "No  Thoroughfare,  sir.  No  Thoroughfare.  My 
relief  is  that  there  is  no  way  out  of  this  at  this  time  of 
.ay,  and  my  advice  is,  make  yourself  comfortable  where  you 
re.” 

In  the  course  of  the  protracted  consultation,  a magnum  of 
he  forty-five  year  old  port  wine  had  been  produced  for  the 
.netting  of  Mr.  Bintrey’ s legal  whistle;  but  the  more  clearly 
e saw  his  way  through  the  wine,  the  more  emphatically  he 
id  not  see  his  way  through  the  case ; repeating  as  often  as 
e set  his  glass  down  empty,  "Mr.  Wilding,  No  Thorough- 
a.re.  Best  and  be  thankful.” 

It  is  certain  that  the  honest  wine-merchant’s  anxiety  to 
lake  a^  will  originated  in  profound  conscientiousness; 
•lough  it  is  possible  (and  quite  consistent  with  his  recti- 
ide)  that  he  may  unconsciously  have  derived  some  feeling 
t relief  from  the  prospect  of  delegating  his  own  difficulty 
) two  other  men  who  were  to  come  after  him.  Be  that  as 
i may,  he  pursued  his  new  track  of  thought  with  great 


44 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


ardour,  and  lost  no  time  in  begging  George  Vendale  and 
Mr.  Bin  trey  to  meet  him  in  Cripple  Corner  and  share  his 
confidence. 

‘‘Being  all  three  assembled  with  closed  doors/’  said  Mr. 
Bintrey,  addressing  the  new  partner  on  the  occasion,  “ 1 
wish  to  observe,  before  our  friend  (and  my  client)  entrusts 
us  with  his  further  views,  that  I have  endorsed  what  I un- 
derstand from  him  to  have  been  your  advice,  Mr.  Vendale, 
and  what  would  be  the  advice  of  every  sensible  man.  ] 
have  told  him  that  he  positively  must  keep  his  secret.  1 
have  spoken  with  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  both  in  his  presence 
and  in  his  absence;  and  if  anybody  is  to  be  trusted  (whicli 
is  a very  large  IF),  I think  she  is  to  be  trusted  to  that  ex- 
tent. I have  pointed  out  to  our  friend  (and  my  client), 
that  to  set  on  foot  random  inquiries  would  not  only  be  tc 
raise  the  Devil,  in  the  likeness  of  all  the  swindlers  in  the 
kingdom,  but  would  also  be  to  waste  the  estate.  Now,  jov 
see,  Mr.  Vendale,  our  friend  (and  my  client)  does  not  de- 
sire to  waste  the  estate,  but,  on  the  contrary,  desires  tc 
husband  it  for  what  he  considers — but  I can’t  say  I do— 
the  rightful  owner,  if  such  rightful  owner  should  ever  be 
found.  I am  very  much  mistaken  if  he  ever  will  be,  bu^ 
never  mind  that.  Mr.  Wilding  and  I are,  at  least,  agreec 
that  the  estate  is  not  to  be  wasted.  Now,  I have  yieldec 
to  Mr.  Wilding’s  desire  to  keep  an  advertisement  at  inter- 
vals flowing  through  the  newspapers,  cautiously  inviting 
any  person  who  may  know  anything  about  that  adopted  iui 
fant,  taken  from  the  Foundling  Hospital,  to  come  to  m} 
office;  and  I have  pledged  myself  that  such  advertisemem 
shall  regularly  appear.  I have  gathered  from  our  frienc 
(and  my  client)  that  I meet  you  here  to-day  to  take  his  iuj 
structions,  not  to  give  him  advice.  I am  prepared  to  receiv(^ 
his  instructions,  and  to  respect  his  wishes;  but  you  wil, 
please  observe  that  this  does  not  imply  my  approval  o: 
either  as  a matter  of  professional  opinion.” 

Thus  Mr.  Bintrey;  talking  quite  as  much  at  Wilding  a^ 
to  Vendale.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  his  care  for  his  client,  hi 
was  so  amused  by  his  client’s  Quixotic  conduct,  as  to  ey* 
him  from  time  to  time  with  twinkling  eyes,  in  the  light  o., 
a highly  comical  curiosity. 

“Nothing,”  observed  Wilding,  “can  be  clearer.  I onb 
wish  my  head  were  as  clear  as  yours,  Mr.  Bintrey.” 

“If  you  feel  that  singing  in  it  coming  on,”  hinted  tiu 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


45 


lawyer,  with  an  alarmed  glance,  “put  it  off. — I mean  the 
interview.  ” 

“Not  at  all,  I thank  you,”  said  Wilding.  “ What  was  I 
going  to ” 

“Don’t  excite  yourself,  Mr.  Wilding,” urged  the  lawyer. 
“No;  I wasw’#  going  to,”  said  the  wine-merchant.  “Mr. 
Bin  trey  and  George  Vendale,  would  you  have  any  hesita- 
tion or  objection  to  become  my  joint  trustees  and  executors, 
or  can  you  at  once  consent? 

consent/^  replied  George  Vendale,  readily, 
consent,  said  Bin  trey,  not  so  readily. 

Thank  yon  both.  Mr.  Bintrey,  my  instructions  for  my 
last  will  and  testament  are  short  and  plain.  Perhaps  you 
^ill  now  have  the  goodness  to  take  them  down.  I leave 
:he  whole  of  my  real  and  personal  estate,  without  any  ex- 
ception or  reservation  whatsoever,  to  you  two,  my  joint 
3rustees  and  executors,  in  trust  to  pay  over  the  whole  to 
:he  true  Walter  Wilding,  if  lie  shall  be  found  and  identi- 
led  within  two  years  after  the  day  of  my  death.  Failing 
Fat,  in  trust  to  you  two  to  pay  over  the  whole  as  a bene- 
faction and  legacy  to  the  Foundling  Hospital.’^ 

Those  are  all  your  instructions,  are  they,  Mr.  Wild- 
ng?  demanded  Bintrey,  after  a blank  silence,  during 
vhich  nobody  had  looked  at  anybody. 

The  whole.” 

And  as  to  those  instructions,  you  have  absolutely  made 
ip  your  mind,  Mr.  Wilding?  ” 

Absolutely,  decidedly,  finally.” 

‘^It  only  remains,”  said  the  lawyer,  with  one  shrug  of 
lis  shoulders,  ‘‘to  get  them  into  technical  and  binding 
orm,  and  to  execute  and  attest.  Now,  does  that  press?  Is 
here  any  hurry  about  it?  You  are  not  going  to  die  yet, 
ir.” 

“Mr.  Bintrey,”  answered  Wilding,  gravely,  “when  I 
m going  to  die  is  within  other  knowledge  than  yours  or 
line.  I shall  be  glad  to  have  this  matter  off  my  mind,  if 
on  please.” 

“We  are  lawyer  and  client  again,”  rejoined  Bintrey, 
Fo,  for  the  nonce,  had  become  almost  sympathetic.  “ If 
lis  day  week — here,  at  the  same  hour — will  suit  Mr.  Ven-  ' 
ale  and  yourself,  I will  enter  in  my  Diary  that  I attend 
on  accordingly.” 

The  appointment  was  made,  and  in  due  sequence  kept. 


40 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


Tlie  will  was  formally  signed,  sealed,  delivered,  and  wit-j 
nessed,  and  was  carried  off  by  Mr.  Bintrey  for  safe  storagej 
among  the  papers  of  his  clients,  ranged  in  their  respective! 
iron  boxes,  with  their  respective  owners’  names  outside,  onj 
iron  tiers  in  his  consulting-room,  as  if  that  legal  sanctuary: 
were  a condensed  Family  Vault  of  Clients.  I 

With  more  heart  than  he  had  lately  had  for  former  sub-i 
jects  of  interest.  Wilding  then  set  about  completing  liisj 
patriarchal  establishment,  being  much  assisted  not  only  by| 
Mrs.  Goldstraw  but  by  Vendale  too:  who,  perhaps,  had  in| 
his  mind  the  giving  of  an  Obenreizer  dinner  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. Anyhow,  the  establishment  being  reported  insoundl 
working  order,  the  Obenreizers,  Guardian  and  Ward,  were 
asked  to  dinner,  and  Madame  Dor  was  included  in  the  in- 
vitation. If  Vendale  had  been  over  head  and  ears  in  love 
before — a phrase  not  to  be  taken  as  implying  the  faintest 
doubt  about  it — this  dinner  plunged  him  down  in  love  ten 
thousand  fathoms  deep.  Yet,  for  the  life  of  him,  he  could 
not  get  one  word  alone  with  charming  Marguerite.  Sc 
surely  as  a blessed  moment  seemed  to  come,  Obenreizer,  in 
his  filmy  state,  would  stand  at  Vendale’ s elbow,  or  the 
broad  back  of  Madame  Dor  would  appear  before  his  eyes. 
That  speechless  matron  was  never  seen  in  a front  view, 
from  the  moment  of  her  arrival  to  that  of  her  departure— 
except  at  dinner.  And  from  the  instant  of  her  retirement 
to  the  -drawing-room,  after  a hearty  participation  in  that 
meal,  she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall  again. 

Yet,  through  four  or  five  delightful  though  distracting 
hours,  Marguerite  was  to  be  seen.  Marguerite  was  to  be 
heard.  Marguerite  was  to  be  occasionally  touched.  Wher 
they  made  the  round  of  the  old  dark  cellars,  Vendale  lec 
her  by  the  hand;  when  she  sang  to  him  in  the  lighted  rooir 
at  night,  Vendale,  standing  by  her,  held  her  relinquisheq 
gloves,  and  would  have  bartered  against  them  every  dro| 
of  the  forty-five  year  old,  though  it  had  been  forty-fivt 
times  forty-five  years  old,  and  its  net  price  forty-five  times 
forty-five  pounds  per  dozen.  And  still,  when  she  wat 
gone,  and  a great  gap  of  an  extinguisher  was  clapped  oi 
Cripple  Corner,  he  tormented  himself  by  wondering.  Die 
she  think  that  he  admired  her!  Did  she  think  that  h» 
adored  her!  Did  she  suspect  that  she  had  won  him,  hear' 
and  soul ! Did  she  care  to  think  at  all  about  it ! And  so 
Did  she  and  Didn’t  she,  up  and  down  the  gamut,  and  abovi 


KO  THOKOUGHFARE= 


47 


:he  line  and  below  the  line,  dear,  dear ! Poor  restless  heart 
)f  humanity ! To  think  that  the  men  who  were  mummies 
thousands  of  years  ago,  did  the  same,  and  ever  found  the 
^»ecret  how  to  be  quiet  after  it ! 

What  do  you  think,  George,”  Wilding  asked  him  next 
lay,  “of  Mr.  Obenreizer?  (I  won’t  ask  you  what  you 
^hink  of  Miss  Obenreizer.)” 

’ “I  don’t  know,”  said  Vendale,  “and  I never  did  know, 
vhat  to  think  of  him.” 

“ He  is  well  informed  and  clever,  ” said  Wilding. 
Certainly  clever.  ” 

I ''A  good  musician.”  (He  had  played  very  well,  and 
•ung  very  well,  overnight.) 

“Unquestionably  a good  musician.” 

“ And  talks  well.”  • 

! “Yes,”  said  George  Vendale,  ruminating,  “and  talks 
veil.  Do  you  know.  Wilding,  it  oddly  occurs  to  me,  as  1 
hink  about  him,  that  he  doesn’t  keep  silence  well!” 

I “How  do  you  mean?  He  is  not  obtrusively  talkative.” 
“ISTo,  and  I don’t  mean  that.  But  when  he  is  silent,  you 
an  hardly  help  vaguely,  though  perhaps  most  unjustly, 
aistrusting  him.  Take  people  whom  you  know  and  like, 
lake  any  one  you  know  and  like.” 

“Soon  done,  my  good  fellow,”  said  Wilding.  “I  take 
ou.” 

“I  didn’t  bargain  for  that,  or  foresee  it,”  returned  Ven- 
ale,  laughing.  “However,  take  me.  Reflect  for  a mo- 
ment. Is  your  approving  knowledge  of  my  interesting  face 
lainly  founded  (however  various  the  momentary  expres- 
ions  it  may  include)  on  my  face  when  I am  silent?  ” 

“I  think  it  is,”  said  Wilding. 

“I  think  so  too.  Now,  you  see,  when  Obenreizer  speaks 
-in  other  words,  when  he  is  allowed  to  explain  himself 
— he  comes  out  right  enough;  but  when  he  has  not 
le  opportunity  of  explaining  himself  away,  he  comes  out 
ither  wrong.  Therefore  it  is,  that  I say  he  does  not  keep 
,-lence  well.  And  passing  hastily  in  review  such  faces  as 
know,  and  don’t  trust,  I am  inclined  to  think,  now  I give 
ly  mind  to  it,  that  none  of  them  keep  silence  well.” 

This  proposition  in  Physiognomy  being  new  to  Wilding, 
e was  at  first  slow  to  admit  if,  until  asking  himself  the 
uestion  whether  Mrs.  Goldstraw  kept  silence  well,  and  re- 
lembering  that  her  face  in  repose  decidedly  invited  trush 


IS 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


fulness,  he  was  as  glad  as  men  usually  are  to  believe  vhat 
they  desire  to  believe. 

But,  as  he  was  very  slow  to  regain  his  spirits  or  his 
health,  his  partner,  as  another  means  of  setting  him  up — 
and  perhaps  also  with  contingent  Obenreizer  views — re- 
minded him  of  those  musical  schemes  of  his  in  connection 
with  his  family,  and  how  a singing-class  was  to  be  formed 
in  the  house,  and  a Choir  in  a neighbouring  church.  The 
class  was  established  speedily,  and  two  or  three  of  the  peo- 
ple having  already  some  musical  knowledge,  and  singing 
tolerably,  the  Choir  soon  followed.  The  latter  was  led 
and  chiefly  taught,  by  Wilding  himself : who  had  hopes  of 
converting  his  dependents  into  so  many  Foundlings,  in  re- 
spect of  their  capacity  to  sing  sacred  choruses. 

Now,  the  Obenreizers  being»  skilled  musicians  it  was  eas- 
ily brought  to  pass  that  they  should  be  asked  to  join  these 
musical  unions.  Guardian  and  Ward  consenting,  or  Guar- 
dian consenting  for  both,  it  was  necessarily  brought  to  pass 
that  Vend  ale’s  life  became  a life  of  absolute  thraldom 
and  enchantment.  For,  in  the  mouldy  Christopher- Wren 
church  on  Sundays,  with  its  dearly  beloved  brethren  assem- 
bled and  met  together,  five-and-twenty  strong,  was  not  that 
Her  voice  that  shot  like  light  into  the  darkest  places,  thrill- 
ing the  walls  and  pillars  as  though  they  were  pieces  of  his| 
heart!  What  time,  too,  Madame  Dor  in  a corner  of  the 
high  pew,  turning  her  back  upon  everybody  and  every- 
thing, could  not  fail  to  be  Ritualistically  right  at  some  mo- 
ment of  the  service;  like  the  man  whom  the  doctors  recom- 
mended to  get  drunk  once  a month,  and  who,  that  he  might 
not  overlook  it,  got  drunk  every  day. 

But,  even  those  seraphic  Sundays  were  surpassed  by  theJ 
Wednesday  concerts  established  for  the  patriarchal  family. 
At  those  concerts  she  would  sit  down  to  the  piano  and  sing] 
^hem,  in  her  own  tongue,  songs  of  her  own  land,  songs  call- 
ing from  the  mountain-tops  to  Vendale,  ^^Bise  above  the 
grovelling  level  country;  come  far  away  from  the  crowd; 
pursue  me  as  I mount  higher,  higher,  higher,  melting  into 
the  azure  distance;  rise  to  my  supremest  height  of  all,  and 
love  me  here ! ” Then  would  the  pretty  bodice,  the  clocked 
stocking,  and  the  silver-buckled  shoe  be,  like  the  broad 
forehead  and  the  bright  eyes,  fraught  with  the  spring  of  a 
very  chamois,  until  the  strain  was  over. 

Not  even  over  Vendale  himself  did  these  songs  of  hers 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


49 


ast  a more  potent  spell  than  over  Joey  Ladle  in  his  differ- 
nt  way.  Steadily  refusing  to  muddle  the  harmony  by  tak- 
ig  any  share  in  it,  and  evincing  the  supremest  contempt 
Dr  scales  and  such  like  rudiments  of  music — which,  in- 
eed,  seldom  captivate  mere  listeners — Joey  did  at  first 
ive  up  the  whole  business  for  a bad  job,  and  the  whole  of 
le  performers  for  a set  of  howling  Dervishes.  But,  de- 
crying traces  of  unmuddled  harmony  in  a part-song’  one 
ay,  he  gave  his  two  under-cellarmen  faint  hopes  of  get- 
ng  on  towards  something  in  course  of  time.  An  anthem 
■f  Handel’s  led  to  further  encouragement  from  him: 
Dough  he  objected  that  that  great  musician  must  have 
cen  down  in  some  of  them  foreign  cellars  pretty  much,  for 
I go  and  say  the  same  thing  so  many  times  over;  which, 
Dok  it  in  how  you  might,  he  considered  a certain  sign  of 
bur  having  took  it  in  somehow.  On  a third  occasion,  the 
iblic  appearance  of  Mr.  Jarvis  with  a flute,  and  of  an  odd 
an  with  a violin,  and  the  performance  of  a duet  by  the 
jvo,  did  so  astonish  him  that,  solely  of  his  own  impulse 
id  motion,  he  became  inspired  with  the  words,  “Ann 
oar!”  repeatedly  pronouncing  them  as  if  calling  in  a 
.miliar  manner  for  some  lady  who  had  distinguished  her- 
If  in  the  orchestra.  But  this  was  his  final  testimony  to 
le  merits  of  his  mates,  for,  the  instrumental  duet  being 
srformed  at  the  first  Wednesday  concert,  and  being  pres- 
itly  followed  by  the  voice  of  Marguerite  Obenreizer,  he 
t with  his  mouth  wide  open,  entranced,  until  she  had  fin- 
hed;  when,  rising  in  his  place  with  much  solemnity,  and 
■efacing  what  he  was  about  to  say  with  a bow  that  spe- 
illy  included  Mr.  Wilding  in  it,  he  delivered  himself  of 
e gratifying  sentiment : “ Arter  that,  ye  may  all  on  ye 
t to  bed  I ” And  ever  afterwards  declined  to  render  hom- 
■e  in  any  other  words  to  the  musical  powers  of  the  family. 
Thus  began  a separate  personal  acquaintance  between 
arguerite  Obenreizer  and  Joey  Ladle.  She  laughed  so 
artily  at  his  compliment,  and  yet  was  so  abashed  by  it, 
at  Joey  made  bold  to  say  to  her,  after  the  concert  was 
er,  he  hoped  he  wasn’t  so  muddled  in  his  head  as  to  have 
)k  a liberty?  She  made  him  a gracious  reply,  and  Joey 
eked  in  return. 

“You’ll  change  the  luck  time  about.  Miss,”  said  Joey, 
eking  again.  “It’s  such  as  you  in  the  place  that  can 
ng  round  the  luck  of  the  place.” 

4 


50 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


Can  I?  Round  the  luck?  ” she  answered,  in  her  prett} 
English,  and  with  a pretty  wonder.  I fear  I do  not  un- 
derstand. I am  so  stupid.’’ 

Young  Master  Wilding,  Miss,”  Joey  explained  confi- 
dentially, though  not  much  io  her  enlightenment,  changec 
the  luck,  afore  he  took  in  ji  ung  Master  George.  So  I say 
and  so  they’ll  find.  Lord!  Only  come  into  the  place  anc 
sing  over  the  luck  a few  times,  Miss,  and  it  won’t  be  abh 
to  help  itself!  ” 

With  this,  and  with  a whole  brood  of  ducks,  Joeybackec 
out  of  the  presence.  But  Joey  being  a privileged  person 
and  even  an  involuntary  conquest  being  pleasant  to  youtl 
and  beauty.  Marguerite  merrily  looked  out  for  him  nex 
time. 

Where  is  my  Mr.  Joey,  please?  ” she  asked  of  Vendale 

So  J oey  was  produced  and  shaken  hands  with,  and  tha 
became  an  Institution. 

Another  Institution  arose  in  thiswise.  Joey  was  a litth 
hard  of  hearing.  He  himself  said  it  was  Wapcurs,”  anc 
perhaps  it  might  have  been;  but  whatever  the  cause  of  th( 
effect,  there  the  effect  was,  upon  him.  On  this  first  occa 
sion  he  had  been  seen  to  sidle  along  the  wall,  with  his  lef 
hand  to  his  left  ear,  until  he  had  sidled  himself  into  a sea 
pretty  near  the  singer,  in  which  place  and  position  he  hac 
remained,  until  addressing  to  his  friends  the  amateurs  th» 
compliment  before  mentioned.'  It  was  observed  on  the  fol 
lowing  Wednesday  that  Joey’s  action  as  a Pecking  Machim 
was  impaired  at  dinner,  and  it  was  rumoured  about  th* 
table  that  this  was  explainable  by  his  high-strung  expecta 
tions  of  Miss  Obenreizer’s  singing,  and  his  fears  of  not  get 
ting  a place  where  he  could  hear  every  note  and  syllable 
The  rumour  reaching  Wilding’s  ears,  he  in  his  good  natun 
called  Joey  to  the  front  at  night  before  Marguerite  began 
Thus  the  Institution  came  into  being  that  on  succeeding 
nights.  Marguerite,  running  her  hands  over  the  keys  befort 
singing,  always  said  to  Vendale,  Where  is  my  Mr.  Joeyi 
please?  ” and  that  Vendale  always  brought  him  forth,  aiu 
stationed  him  near  by.  That  he  should  then,  when  al 
eyes  were  upon  him,  express  in  his  face  the  utmost  con 
tempt  for  the  exertions  of  his  friends  and  confidence  ir 
Marguerite  alone,  whom  he  would  stand  contemplating,  no' 
unlike  the  rhinoceros  out  of  the  spelling-book,  tamed  anc 
on  his  hind  legs,  was  a part  of  the  Institution.  Also  tha 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


61 


when  he  remained  after  the  singing  in  his  most  eestatic 
state,  some  bold  spirit  from  the  back  should  say,  What 
do  you  think  of  it,  Joey?  and  he  should  be  goaded  to  re- 
ply, as  having  that  instant  conceived  the  retort,  ^‘Arter 
that  ye  may  all  on  ye  get  to  bed ! These  were  other  parts 
of  the  Institution. 

But  the  simple  pleasures  and  small  jests  of  Cripple  Cor- 
ner were  not  destined  to  have  a long  life.  Underlying 
them  from  the  first  was  a serious  matter,  which  every  mem- 
ber of  the  patriarchal  family  knew  of,  but  which,  by  tacit 
agreement,  all  forbore  to  speak  of.  Mr.  Wilding’s  health 
was  in  a bad  way. 

He  might  have  overcome  the  shock  he  had  sustained  in 
the  one  great  affection  of  his  life,  or  he  might  have  over- 
come his  consciousness  of  being  in  the  enjoyment  of  an- 
other man’s  property;  but  the  two  together  were  too  much 
for  him.  A man  haunted  by  twin  ghosts,  he  became 
deeply  depressed.  The  inseparable  spectres  sat  at  the 
board  with  him,  ate  from  his  platter,  drank  from  his  cup, 
and  stood  by  his  bedside  at  night.  When  he  recalled  his 
supposed  mother’s  love,  he  felt  as  though  he  had  stolen  it. 
When  he  rallied  a little  under  the  respect  and  attachment 
of  his  dependents,  he  felt  as  though  he  were  even  fraudu- 
lent in  making  them  happy,  for  that  should  have  been  the 
unknown  man’s  duty  and  gratification. 

Gradually,  under  the  pressure  of  his  brooding  mind,  his 
body  stooped,  his  step  lost  its  elasticity,  his  eyes  were  sel- 
dom lifted  from  the  ground.  He  knew  he  could  not  help 
the  deplorable  mistake  that  had  been  made,  but  he  knew 
he  could  not  mend  it;  for  the  days  and  weeks  went  by,  and 
no  one  claimed  his  name  or  his  possessions.  And  now  there 
began  to  creep  over  him  a cloudy  consciousness  of  often  re- 
curring confusion  in  his  head.  He  would  unaccountably 
lose,  sometimes  whole  hours,  sometimes  a whole  day  and 
night.  Once,  his  remembrance  stopped  as  he  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  dinner- table,  and  was  blank  until  daybreak. 
Another  time,  it  stopped  as  he  was  beating  time  to  their 
singing,  and  went  on  again  when  he  and  his  partner  were 
walking  in  the  courtyard  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  half  the 
night  later.  He  asked  Vendale  (always  full  of  consider- 
ation, work,  and  help)  how  this  was?  Vendale  only  re- 
plied, “You  have  not  been  quite  well;  that’s  all.”  He 
looked  for  explanation  into  the  faces  of  his  people.  But 


52 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


they  would  put  it  off  with,  Glad  to  see  you  looking  so 
much  better,  sir;  or  “ Hope  you’re  doing  nicely  now,  sir;” 
in  which  was  no  information  at  all. 

At  length,  when  the  partnership  was  but  five  months  old, 
Walter  Wilding  took  to  his  bed,  and  his  housekeeper  be- 
came his  nurse. 

Lying  here,  perhaps  you  will  not  mind  my  calling  you 
Sally,  Mrs.  Goldstraw?”  said  the  poor  wine-merchant. 

It  sounds  more  natural  to  me,  sir,  than  any  other  name, 
and  I like  it  better.” 

''  Thank  you,  Sally.  I think,  Sally,  I must  of  late  have 
been  subject  to  fits.  Is  that  so,  Sally?  Don’t  mind  telling 
me  now.” 

^Ht  has  happened,  sir.” 

Ah ! That  is  the  explanation ! ” he  quietly  remarked. 

Mr.  Obenreizer,  Sally,  talks  of  the  world  being  so  small 
that  it  is  not  strange  how  often  the  same  people  come  to- 
gether, and  come  together,  at  various  places,  and  in  various 
stages  of  life.  But  it  does  seem  strange,  Sally,  that  I 
should,  as  I may  say,  come  round  to  the  Foundling  to  die.” 

He  extended  his  hand  to  her,  and  she  gently  took  it. 

^Wou  are  not  going  to  die,  dear  Mr.  Wilding.” 

So  Mr.  Bintrey  said,  but  I think  he  was  wrong.  The 
old  child-feeling  is  coming  back  upon  me,  Sally.  The  old 
hush  and  rest,  as  I used  to  fall  asleep.” 

After  an  interval  he  said,  in  a placid  voice,  Please  kiss 
me.  Nurse,”  and,  it  was  evident,  believed  himself  to  be 
lying  in  the  old  Dormitory. 

As  she  had  been  used  to  bend  over  the  fatherless  and 
motherless  children,  Sally  bent  over  the  fatherless  and 
motherless  man,  and  put  her  lips  to  his  forehead,  murmur- 
ing: 

God  bless  you ! ” 

God  bless  you ! ” he  replied,  in  the  same  tone. 

After  another  interval,  he  opened  his  eyes  in  his  own 
character,  and  said:  Don’t  move  me,  Sally,  because  of 

what  I am  going  to  say;  I lie  quite  easily.  I think  my 
time  is  come.  I don’t  know  how  it  may  appear  to  you, 
Sally,  but ” 

Insensibility  fell  upon  him  for  a few  minutes;  he  emerged 
from  it  once  more. 

“ — I don’t  know  how  it  may  appear  to  you,  Sally,  but 
so  it  appears  to  me.” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


63 


When  he  had  thus  conscientiously  finished  his  favourite 
sentence,  his  time  came,  and  he  died. 

ACT  II. 

VENDALE  MAKES  LOVE. 

The  summer  and  the  autumn  had  passed.  Christmas 
and  the  New  Year  were  at  hand. 

As  executors  honestly  bent  on  performing  their  duty 
towards  the  dead,  Vendale  and  Bintrey  had  held  more  than 
one  anxious  consultation  on  the  subject  of  Wilding’s  will. 
The  lawyer  had  declared,  from  the  first,  that  it  was  simply 
impossible  to  take  any  useful  action  in  the  matter  at  all. 
The  only  obvious  inquiries  to  make,  in  relation  to  the  lost 
man,  had  been  made  already  by  Wilding  himself;  with 
this  result,  that  time  and  death  together  had  not  left  a 
trace  of  him  discoverable.  To  advertise  for  the  claimant 
to  the  property,  it  would  be  necessary  to  mention  particu- 
lars— a course  of  proceeding  which  would  invite  half  the 
impostors  in  England  to  present  themselves  in  the  charac- 
ter of  the  true  Walter  Wilding.  If  we  find  a chance  of 
tracing  the  lost  man,  we  will  take  it.  If  we  don’t,  let  us 
meet  for  another  consultation  on  the  first  anniversary  of 
Wilding’s  death.”  So  Bintrey  advised.  And  so,  with  the 
most  earnest  desire  to  fulfil  his  dead  friend’s  wishes,  Ven- 
dale was  fain  to  let  the  matter  rest  for  the  present. 

Turning  from  his  interest  in  the  past  to  his  interest  in 
the  future,  Vendale  still  found  himself  confronting  a 
doubtful  prospect.  Months  on  months  had  passed  since 
his  first  visit  to  Soho-square — and  through  all  that  time, 
the  one  language  in  which  he  had  told  Marguerite  that  he 
loved  her  was  the  language  of  the  eyes,  assisted,  at  conve- 
nient opportunities,  by  the  language  of  the  hand. 

What  was  the  obstacle  in  his  way?  The  one  immovable 
obstacle  which  had  been  in  his  way  from  the  first.  No 
matter  how  fairly  the  opportunities  looked,  Vendale ’s 
efforts  to  speak  with  Marguerite  alone,  ended  invariably  in 
one  and  the  same  result.  Under  the  most  accidental  cir- 
cumstances, in  the  most  innocent  manner  possible,  Oben- 
reizer  was  always  in  the  way. 

With  the  last  days  of  the  old  year  came  an  unexpected 
chance  of  spending  an  evening  with  Marguerite,  which 
Vendale  resolved  should  be  a chance  of  speaking  privately 


54 


NO  TIIOKOUGIIPARE. 


to  her  as  well.  A cordial  note  from  Obenreizer  invited 
him,  on  New  Year’s  Day,  to  a little  family  dinner  in  Soho- 
square.  “We  shall  be  only  four,”  the  note  said.  “We 
shall  be  only  two,”  Vendale  determined,  “before  the  even- 
ing is  out ! ” 

New  Year’s  Day  among  the  English,  is  associated  with 
the  giving  and  receiving  of  dinners,  and  with  nothing 
more.  New  Year’s  Day,  among  the  foreigners,  is  the 
grand  opportunity  of  the  year  for  the  giving  and  receiving 
of  presents.  It  is  occasionally  possible  to  acclimatise  a 
foreign  custom.  In  this  instance  Vendale  felt  no  hesita- 
tion about  making  the  attempt.  His  one  difficulty  was  to 
decide  what  his  New  Year’s  gift  to  Marguerite  should  be. 
The  defensive  pride  of  the  peasant’s  daughter — morbidly 
sensitive  to  the  inequality  between  her  social  position  and 
his — would  be  secretly  roused  against  him  if  he  ventured 
on  a rich  offering.  A gift,  which  a poor  man’s  purse  might 
purchase,  was  the  one  gift  that  could  be  trusted  to  find  its 
way  to  her  heart,  for  the  giver’s  sake.  Stoutly  resisting 
temptation,  in  the  form  of  diamonds  and  rubies,  Vendale 
bought  a brooch  of  the  filigree- work  of  Genoa— the  sim- 
plest and  most  unpretending  ornament  that  he  could  find 
in  the  jeweler’s  shop. 

He  slipped  his  gift  into  Marguerite’s  hand  as  she  held  it 
out  to  welcome  him  on  the  day  of  the  dinner. 

“This  is  your  first  New  Year’s  Day  in  England,”  he  said. 
“ Will  you  let  me  help  to  make  it  like  a New  Year’s  Day 
at  home?  ” 

She  thanked  him,  a little  constrainedly,  as  she  looked  at 
the  jeweller’s  box,  uncertain  what  it  might  contain.  Open- 
ing the  box,  and  discovering  the  studiously  simple  form 
under  which  Vendale’ s little  keepsake  offered  itself  to  her, 
she  penetrated  his  motive  on  the  spot.  Her  face  turned  on 
him  brightly,  with  a look  which  said,  “I  own  you  have 
pleased  and  flattered  me.”  Never  had  she  been  so  charm- 
ing, in  Vendale’s  eyes,  as  she  was  at  that  moment.  Her 
winter  dress — a petticoat  of  dark  silk,  with  a bodice  of 
black  velvet  rising  to  her  neck,  and  enclosing  it  softly  in  a 
little  circle  of  swansdown — heightened,  by  all  the  force  of 
contrast,  the  dazzling  fairness  of  her  hair  and  her  complex- 
ion. It  was  only  when  she  turned  aside  from  him  to  the 
glass,  and,  taking  out  the  brooch  that  she  wore,  put  his 
New  Year’s  gift  in  its  place,  that  Vendale’s  attention  wan- 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


55 


dered  far  enough  away  from  her  to  discover  the  presence  of 
other  persons  in  the  room.  He  now  became  conscious  that 
the  hands  of  Obenreizer  were  affectionately  in  possession  of 
his  elbows.  He  now  heard  the  voice  of  Obenreizer  thank- 
ing him  for  his  attention  to  Marguerite,  with  the  faintest 
possible  ring  of  mockery  in  its  tone.  (^^Such  a simple 
present,  dear  sir!  and  showing  such  nice  tact!’^)  He  now 
discovered,  for  the  first  time,  that  there  was  one  other 
guest,  and  but  one,  besides  himself,  whom  Obenreizer  pre- 
sented as  a compatriot  and  friend.  The  friend’s  face  was 
mouldy,  and  the  friend’s  figure  was  fat.  His  age  was  sug- 
gestive of  the  autumnal  period  of  human  life.  In  the  course 
of  the  evening  he  developed  two  extraordinary  capacities. 
One  was  a capacity  for  silence;  the  other  was  a capacity 
for  emptying  bottles. 

Madame  Dor  was  not  in  the  room.  Neither  was  there 
any  visible  place  reserved  for  her  when  they  sat  down  to 
table.  Obenreizer  explained  that  it  was  ‘Hhe  good  Dor’s 
simple  habit  to  dine  always  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  She 
would  make  her  excuses  later  in  the  evening.”  Vendale 
wondered  whether  the  good  Dor  had,  on  this  occasion,  va- 
ried her  domestic  employment  from  cleaning  Obenreizer’s 
gloves  to  cooking  Obenreizer’s  dinner.  This  at  least  was 
certain — the  dishes  served  were,  one  and  all,  as  achieve- 
ments in  cookery,  high  above  the  reach  of  the  rude  element- 
ary art  of  England.  The  dinner  was  unobtrusively  per- 
fect. As  for  the  wine,  the  eyes  of  the  speechless,  friend 
rolled  over  it,  as  in  solemn  ecstasy.  Sometimes  he  said 
^^Good!”  when  a bottle  came  in  full;  and  sometimes  he 
said  Ah ! ” when  a bottle  went  out  empty — and  there  his 
contributions  to  the  gaiety  of  the  evening  ended. 

Silence  is  occasionally  infectious.  Oppressed  by  private 
anxieties  of  their  own.  Marguerite  and  Vendale  appeared  to 
feel  the  influence  of  the  speechless  friend.  The  whole  re- 
sponsibility of  keeping  the  talk  going  rested  on  Obenreizer’s 
shoulders,  and  manfully  did  Obenreizer  sustain  it.  He 
opened  his  heart  in  the  character  of  an  enlightened  for- 
eigner, and  sang  the  praises  of  England.  When  other  top- 
ics ran  dry,  he  returned  to  this  inexhaustible  source,  and 
always  set  the  stream  running  again  as  copiously  as  ever." 
Obenreizer  would  have  given  an  arm,  an  eye,  or  a leg  to 
have  been  born  an  Englishman.  Out  of  England  there  was 
no  such  institution  as  a home,  no  such  thing  as  a fire-side. 


56 


NO  TlIOROUOnPARE. 


no  such  object  as  a beautiful  woman.  His  dear  Miss  Mar- 
guerite would  excuse  him,  if  he  accounted  for  her  attrac- 
tions on  the  theory  that  English  blood  must  have  mixed  at 
some  former  time  with  their  obscure  and  unknown  ances- 
try. Survey  this  English  nation,  and  behold  a tall,  clean, 
plump,  and  solid  people!  Look  at  their  cities!  What 
magnificence  in  their  public  buildings ! What  admirable 
order  and  propriety  in  their  streets ! Admire  their  laws, 
combining  the  eternal  principle  of  justice  with  the  other 
eternal  principle  of  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence;  and  ap- 
plying the  product  to  all  civil  injuries,  from  an  injury  to  a 
man^s  honour,  to  an  injury  to  a man’s  nose!  You  have 
ruined  my  daughter — pounds,  shillings,  and  pence ! You 
have  knocked  me  down  with  a blow  in  my  face — pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence ! Where  was  the  material  prosperity 
of  such  a country  as  that  to  stop?  Obenreizer,  projecting 
himself  into  the  future,  failed  to  see  the  end  of  it.  Oben- 
reizer’s enthusiasm  entreated  permission  to  exhale  itself, 
English  fashion,  in  a toast.  Here  is  our  modest  little  din- 
ner over,  here  is  our  frugal  dessert  on  the  table,  and  here 
is  the  admirer  of  England  conforming  to  national  customs, 
and  making  a speech ! A toast  to  your  white  cliffs  of  Al- 
bion, Mr.  Vendale ! to  your  national  virtues,  your  charming 
climate,  and  your  fascinating  women ! to  your  Hearths,  to 
your  Homes,  to  your  Habeas  Corpus,  and  to  all  your  other 
institutions ! In  one  word — to  England ! Heep-heep-heep ! 
hooray ! 

Obenreizer’ s voice  had  barely  chanted  the  last  note  of  the 
English  cheer,  the  speechless  friend  had  barely  drained 
the  last  drop  out  of  his  glass,  when  the  festive  proceedings 
were  interrupted  by  a modest  tap  at  the  door.  A woman- 
servant  came  in,  and  approached  her  master  with  a little 
note  in  her  hand.  Obenreizer  opened  the  note  with  a 
frown-,  and,  after  reading  it  with  an  expression  of  genuine 
annoyance,  passed  it  on  to  his  compatriot  and  friend. 
Vendale’s  spirits  rose  as  he  watched  these  proceedings. 
Had  he  found  an  ally  in  the  annoying  little  note?  Was 
the  long-looked-for  chance  actually  coming  at  last? 

I am  afraid  4;here  is  no  help  for  it?  ” said  Obenreizer, 
addressing  his  fellow-countryman.  I am  afraid  we  must 
go.” 

The  speechless  friend  handed  back  the  letter,  shrugged 
his  heavy  shoulders,  and  poured  himself  out  a last  glass  of 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


67 


wine.  His  fat  fingers  lingered  fondly  round  the  neck  of 
the  bottle.  They  pressed  it  with  a little  amatory  squeeze 
at  parting.  His  globular  eyes  looked  dimly,  as  through  an 
intervening  haze,  at  Vendale  and  Marguerite.  His  heavy 
articulation  laboured,  and  brought  forth  a whole  sentence 
at  a birth.  think, he  said,  should  have  liked  a lit- 
tle more  wine.’’  His  breath  failed  him  after  that  effort; 
he  gasped,  and  walked  to  the  door. 

Obenreizer  addressed  himself  to  Vendale  with  an  appear- 
ance of  the  deepest  distress. 

am  so  shocked,  so  confused,  so  distressed,”  he  began. 

A misfortune  has  happened  to  one  of  my  compatriots. 
He  is  alone,  he  is  ignorant  of  your  language — I and  my 
good  friend,  here,  have  no  choice  but  to  go  and  help  him. 
What  can  I say  in  my  excuse?  How  can  I describe  my 
affliction  at  depriving  myself  in  this  way  of  the  honour  of 
your  company?” 

He  paused,  evidently  expecting  to  see  Vendale  take  up 
his  hat  and  retire.  Discerning  his  opportunity  at  last, 
Vendale  determined  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  met 
Obenreizer  dexterously,  with  Obenreizer’ s own  weapons. 

Pray  don’t  distress  yourself,”  he  said.  I’ll  wait  here 
with  the  greatest  pleasure  till  you  come  back.” 

Marguerite  blushed  deeply,  and  turned  away  to  her  em- 
broidery-frame in  a corner  by  the  window.  The  film 
showed  itself  in  Obenreizer’ s eyes,  and  the  smile  came 
something  sourly  to  Obenreizer’s  lips.  To  have  told  Ven- 
dale that  there  was  no  reasonable  prospect  of  his  coming 
back  in  good  time  would  have  been  to  risk  offending  a man 
whose  favourable  opinion  was  of  solid  commercial  impor- 
tance to  him.  Accepting  his  defeat  with  the  best  possible 
grace,  he  declared  himself  to  be  equally  honoured  and  de- 
lighted by  Vendale’s  proposal.  So  frank,  so  friendly,  so 
English ! ” He  bustled  about,  apparently  looking  for  some- 
thing  he  wanted,  disappeared  for  a moment  through  the 
folding-doors  communicating  with  the  next  room,  came 
back  with  his  hat  and  coat,  and  protesting  that  he  would 
return  at  the  earliest  possible  moment,  embraced  Vendale’s 
elbows,  and  vanished  from  the  scene  in  company  with  the 
speechless  friend. 

Vendale  turned  to  the  corner  by  the  window,  in  which 
Marguerite  had  placed  herself  with  her  work.  There,  as 
if  she  had  dropped  from  the  ceiling,  or  come  up  through 


58 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


the  floor — there,  in  the  old  attitude,  with  her  face  to  the 
stove — sat  an  Obstacle  that  had  not  been  foreseen,  in  the 
person  of  Madame  Dor ! She  half  got  up,  half  looked  over 
her  broad  shoulder  at  Vendale,  and  plumped  down  again. 
Was  she  at  work?  Yes.  Cleaning  Obenreizer’s  gloves,  as 
before?  No;  darning  Obenreizer’s  stockings. 

The  case  was  now  desperate.  Two  serious  considerations 
presented  themselves  to  Vendale.  Was  it  possible  to  put 
Madame  Dor  into  the  stove?  The  stove  wouldn’t  hold  her. 
Was  it  possible  to  treat  Madame  Dor,  not  as  a living  wom- 
an but  as  an  article  of  furniture?  Could  the  mind  be 
brought  to  contemplate  this  respectable  matron  purely  in 
the  light  of  a chest  of  drawers,  with  a black  gauze  head- 
dress accidentally  left  on  the  top  of  it?  Yes,  the  mind 
could  be  brought  to  do  that.  With  a comparatively  trifling 
effort,  Vendale’ s mind  did  it.  As  he  took  his  place  on  the 
old-fashioned  window-seat,  close  by  Marguerite  and  her 
embroidery,  a slight  movement  appeared  in  the  chest  oi 
drawers,  but  no  remark  issued  from  it.  Let  it  be  remem- 
bered that  solid  furniture  is  not  easy  to  move,  and  that  it 
has  this  advantage  in  consequence — there  is  no  fear  of  up- 
setting it. 

Unusually  silent  and  unusually  constrained — with  the 
bright  colour  fast  fading  from  her  face,  with  a feverish 
energy  possessing  her  fingers — the  pretty  Marguerite  bent 
over  her  embroidery,  and  worked  as  if  her  life  depended  on 
it.  Hardly  less  agitated  himself,  Vendale  felt  the  impor- 
tance of  leading  her  very  gently  to  the  avowal  which  he 
was  eager  to  make — to  the  other  sweeter  avowal  still, 
which  he  was  longing  to  hear.  A woman’s  love  is  never 
to  be  taken  by  storm;  it  yields  insensibly  to  a system  of 
gradual  approach.  It  ventures  by  the  roundabout  way, 
and  listens  to  the  low  voice.  Vendale  led  her  memory 
back  to  their  past  meetings  when  they  were  travelling  to- 
gether in  Switzerland.  They  revived  the  impressions,  they 
recalled  the  events,  of  the  happy  bygone  time.  Little  by 
little.  Marguerite’s  constraint  vanished.  She  smiled,  she 
was  interested,  she  looked  at  Vendale,  she  grew  idle 
with  her  needle,  she  made  false  stitches  in  her  work. 
Their  voices  sank  lower  and  lower;  their  faces  bent 
nearer  and  nearer  to  each  other  as  they  spoke.  And  Ma- 
dame Dor?  Madame  Dor  behaved  like  an  angel.  She 
never  looked  round;  she  never  said  a word;  she  went  on 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


59 


with  Obenreizer’s  stockings.  Pulling  each  stocking  up 
tight  over  her  left  arm,  and  holding  that  arm  aloft  from 
time  to  time,  to  catch  the  light  on  her  work,  there  were 
moments,  delicate  and  indescribable  moments,  when  Ma- 
dame Dor  appeared  to  be  sitting  upside  down,  and  con- 
templating one  of  her  own  respectable  legs  elevated  in  the 
air.  As  the  minutes  wore  on,  these  elevations  followed 
each  other  at  longer  and  longer  intervals.  Nowand  again, 
the  black  gauze  head-dress  nodded,  dropped  forward,  re- 
covered itself.  A little  heap  of  stockings  slid  softly  from 
Madame  Dor’s  lap,  and  remained  unnoticed  on  the  floor. 
A prodigious  ball  of  worsted  followed  the  stockings,  and 
rolled  lazily  under  the  table.  The  black  gauze  head-dress 
nodded,  dropped  forward,  recovered  itself,  nodded  again, 
dropped  forward  again,  and  recovered  itself  no  more.  A 
composite  sound,  partly  as  of  the  purring  of  an  immense 
cat,  partly  as  of  the  planing  of  a soft  board,  rose  over  the 
hushed  voices  of  the  lovers,  and  hummed  at  regular  inter- 
vals through  the  room.  Nature  and  Madame  Dor  had  com- 
bined together  in  Vendale’s  interests.  The  best  of  women 
was  asleep. 

Marguerite  rose  to  stop — not  the  snoring — let  us  say,  the 
audible  repose  of  Madame  Dor.  Vendale  laid  his  hand  on 
her  arm,  and  pressed  her  back  gently  into  her  chair. 

Don’t  disturb  her,”  he  whispered  have  been  wait- 
ing to  tell  you  a secret.  Let  me  tell  it  now.” 

Marguerite  resumed  her  seat.  She  tried  to  resume  her 
needle.  It  was  useless;  her  eyes  failed  her;  her  hand 
failed  her;  she  could  find  nothing. 

‘‘We  have  been  talking,”  said  Vendale,  “of  the  happy 
time  when  we  first  met,  and  first  travelled  together.  I 
have  a confession  to  make.  I have  been  concealing  some- 
thing. When  we  spoke  of  my  first  visit  to  Switzerland,  I 
told  you  of  all  the  impressions  I had  brought  back  with  me 
to  England — except  one.  Can  you  guess  what  that  one 
is?” 

Her  eyes  looked  steadfastly  at  the  embroidery,  and  her 
face  turned  a little  away  from  him.  Signs  of  disturbance 
began  to  appear  in  her  neat  velvet  bodice,  round  the  region 
of  the  brooch.  She  made  no  reply.  Vendale  pressed  the 
question  without  mercy. 

“ Can  you  guess  what  the  one  Swiss  impression  is,  which 
I have  not  told  you  yet?  ” 


60 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


Her  face  turned  back  towards  him,  and  a faint  smile 
trembled  on  her  lips. 

^^An  impression  of  the  mountains,  perhaps?”  she  said, 
slily. 

‘^No;  a much  more  precious  impression  than  that.” 

‘^Of  the  lakes?  ” 

^^No.  The  lakes  have  not  grown  dearer  and  dearer  in 
remembrance  to  me  every  day.  The  lakes  are  not  associ- 
ated with  my  happiness  in  the  present,  and  my  hopes  in 
the  future.  Marguerite ! all  that  makes  life  worth  having 
hangs,  for  me,  on  a word  from  your  lips.  Marguerite!  I 
love  you ! ” 

Her  head  dropped,  as  he  took  her  hand.  He  drew  her  to 
him,  and  looked  at  her.  The  tears  escaped  from  her  down- 
cast eyes,  and  fell  slowly  over  her  cheeks. 

'^Oh,  Mr.  Vendale,”  she  said,  sadly,  ^4t  would  have  been 
kinder  to  have  kept  your  secret.  Have  you  forgotten  the 
distance  between  us?  It  can  never,  never,  be ! ” 

There  can  be  but  one  distance  between  us.  Marguerite 
—a  distance  of  your  making.  My  love,  my  darling,  there 
is  no  higher  rank  in  goodness,  there  is  no  higher  rank  in 
beauty,  than  yours!  Come!  whisper  the  one  little  word 
which  tells  me  you  will  be  my  wife ! ” 

She  sighed  bitterly.  Think  of  your  family,”  she  mur- 
mured ; and  think  of  mine  ! ” 

Vendale  drew  her  a little  nearer  to  him. 

^^If  you  dwell  on  such  an  obstacle  as  that,”  he  said, 
shall  think  but  one  thought — I shall  think  I have  offended 
you.” 

She  started,  and  looked  up.  ^^Oh,  no!  ” she  exclaimed, 
innocently.  The  instant  the  words  passed  her  lips,  she 
saw  the  construction  that  might  be  placed  on  them.  Her 
confession  had  escaped  her  in  spite  of  herself.  A lovely 
flush  of  colour  overspread  her  face.  She  made  a moment- 
ary effort  to  disengage  herself  from  her  lover’s  embrace. 
She  looked  up  at  him  entreatingly.  She  tried  to  speak. 
The  words  died  on  her  lips  in  the  kiss  that  Vendale  pressed 
on  them.  ^^Let  me  go,  Mr.  Vendale!”  she  said,  faintly. 

^^Call  me  George.” 

She  laid  her  head  on  his  bosom.  All  her  heart  went  out 
to  him  at  last.  George ! ” she  whispered. 

Say  you  love  me ! ” 

Her  arms  twined  themselves  gently  round  his  neck.  Her 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


61 


lips,  timidly  touching  his  cheek,  murmured  the  delicious 
words — I love  you ! ’’ 

In  the  moment  of  silence  that  followed,  the  ^und  of  the 
opening  and  closing  of  the  house-door  came  c^^  to  them 
through  the  wintry  stillness  of  the  street. 

Marguerite  started  to  her  feet. 

Let  me  go ! she  said.  He  has  come  back ! 

She  hurried  from  the  room,  and  touched  Madame  Dor’s 
shoulder  in  passing.  Madame  Dor  woke  up  with  a loud 
snort,  looked  first  over  one  shoulder  and  then  over  the 
other,  peered  down  into  her  lap,  and  discovered  neither 
stockings,  worsted,  nor  darning-needle  in  it.  At  the  same 
moment,  footsteps  became  audible  ascending  the  stairs. 

Mon  Dieu ! ” said  Madame  Dor,  addressing  herself  to  the 
stove,  and  trembling  violently.  Vendale  picked  up  the 
stockings  and  the  ball,  and  huddled  them  all  back  in  a heap 
over  her  shoulder.  “ Mon  Dieu ! ” said  Madame  Dor,  for 
the  second  time,  as  the  avalanche  of  worsted  poured  into 
her  capacious  lap. 

The  door  opened,  and  Obenreizer  came  in.  His  first 
glance  round  the  room  showed  him  that  Marguerite  was  ab- 
sent. 

What!”  he  exclaimed,  ‘‘my  niece  is  away?  My  niece 
is  not  here  to  entertain  you  in  my  absence?  This  is  un- 
pardonable. I shall  bring  her  back  instantly.” 

Vendale  stopped  him. 

“I  beg  you  will  not  disturb  Miss  Obenreizer,”  he  said. 
“You  have  returned,  I see,  without  your  friend?  ” 

“My  friend  remains,  and  consoles  our  afflicted  compa- 
triot. A heart-rending  scene,  Mr.  Vendale!  The  house- 
hold gods  at  the  pawnbroker’s — the  family  immersed  in 
tears.  We  all  embraced  in  silence.  My  admirable  friend 
alone  possessed  his  composure.  He  sent  out,  on  the  spot, 
for  a bottle  of  wine.” 

“ Can  I say  a word  to  you  in  private,  Mr.  Obenreizer?  ” 

“Assuredly.”  He  turned  to  Madame  Dor  “My  good 
creature,  you  are  sinking  for  want  of  repose.  Mr.  Vendale 
will  excuse  you.” 

Madame  Dor  rose,  and  set  forth  sideways  on  her  journey 
from  the  stove  to  bed.  She  dropped  a stocking.  Vendale 
picked  it  up  for  her,  and  opened  one  of  the  folding-doors. 
She  advanced  a step,  and  dropped  three  more  stockings 
Vendale,  stooping  to  recover  them  as  before,  Obenreizer  in- 


62 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


terfered  with  profuse  apologies,  and  with  a warning  look  at 
Madame  Dor.  Madame  Dor  acknowledged  the  look  by 
dropping  j^ie  wliole  of  the  stockings  in  a heap,  and  then 
shuffliiT^j^Way  panic-stricken  from  the  scene  of  disaster. 
Obenre.jv  .oiavept  up  the  complete  collection  fiercely  in  both 
hands.  “ Go ! ” he  cried,  giving  his  prodigious  handful  a 
preparatory  swing  in  the  air.  Madame  Dor  said,  “ Mon 
Dieu,”  and  vanished  into  the  next  room,  pursued  by  a 
shower  of  stockings. 

“What  must  you  think,  Mr.  Vendale,”  said  Obenreizer, 
closing  the  door,  “ of  this  deplorable  intrusion  of  domestic 
details?  For  myself,  I blush  at  it.  We  are  beginning  the 
New  Year  as  badly  as  possible;  everything  has  gone  wrong 
to-night.  Be  seated,  pray— and  say,  what  may  I offer 
you?  Shall  we  pay  our  best  respects  to  another  of  your 
noble  English  institutions?  It  is  my  study  to  be,  what 
you  call,  jolly.  I propose  a grog.” 

Vendale  declined  the  grog  with  all  needful  respect  for 
that  noble  institution. 

“ I wish  to  speak  to  you  on  a subject  in  which  I am 
deeply  interested,”  he  said.  “You  must  have  observed, 
Mr.  Obeiireizer,  that  I have,  from  the  first,  felt  no  ordi- 
nary admiration  for  your  charming  niece?  ” 

“ You  are  very  good.  In  my  niece’s  name,  I thank  you.” 

“ Perhaps  you  may  have  noticed,  latterly,  that  my  ad- 
miration for  Miss  Obenreizer  has  grown  into  a tenderer  and 

deeper  feeling ? ” 

“ Shall  we  say  friendship,  Mr.  Vendale?  ” 

“ Say  love — and  we  shall  be  nearer  to  the  truth.” 
Obenreizer  started  out  of  his  chair.  The  faintly  discern- 
ible beat,  which  was  his  nearest  approach  to  a change  of 
colour,  showed  itself  suddenly  in  his  cheeks. 

“You are  Miss  Obenreizer ’s guardian,” pursued  Vendale. 

“ I ask  you  to  confer  upon  me  the  greatest  of  all  favours — . 
I ask  you  to  give  me  her  hand  in  marriage.” 

Obenreizer  dropped  back  into  his  chair.  “ Mr.  Vendale,” 
he  said,  “you  petrify  me.” 

“I  will  wait,”  rejoined  Vendale,  “until  you  have  recov- 
ered yourself.” 

“ One  word  before  I recover  myself.  You  have  said  noth- 
ing about  this  to  my  niece?  ” 

“ I have  opened  my  whole  heart  to  your  niece.  And  I 
have  reason  to  hope ” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


63 


^^What!”  interposed  Obenreizer.  ‘^You  have  made  a 
proposal  to  my  niece,  without  first  asking  for  my  authority 
to  pay  your  addresses  to  her?  He  struck  his  hand  on  the 
table,  and  lost  his  hold  over  himself  for  the  first  time  in 
Vendale’s  experience  of  him.  he  exclaimed,  in- 

dignantly, ‘^what  sort  of  conduct  is  this?  As  a man  of 
honour,  speaking  to  a man  of  honour,  how  can  you  justify 
it?  ” 

“I  can  only  justify  it  as  one  of  our  English  institutions,’’ 
said  Vendale,  quietly.  You  admire  our  English  institu- 
tions. I can’t  honestly  tell  you,  Mr.  Obenreizer,  that  I 
regret  what  I have  dona  I can  only  assure  you  that  I 
have  not  acted  in  the  matter  with  any  intentional  disre- 
spect towards  yourself.  This  said,  may  I ask  you  to  tell 
me  plainly  what  objection  you  see  to  favouring  my  suit?  ” 
see  this  immense  objection,”  answered  Obenreizer, 
that  my  niece  and  you  are  not  on  a social  equality  to- 
gether. My  niece  is  the  daughter  of  a poor  peasant;  and 
you  are  the  son  of  a gentleman.  You  do  us  an  honour,”  he 
added,  lowering  himself  again  gradually  to  his  customary 
polite  level,  which  deserves,  and  has,  our  most  grateful 
acknowledgments.  But  the  inequality  is  too  glaring;  the 
sacrifice  is  too  great.  You  English  are  a proud  people, 
Mr.  Yendale.  I have  observed  enough  of  this  country  to 
see  that  such  a marriage  as  you  propose  would  be  a scandal 
here.  Not  a hand  would  be  held  out  to  your  peasant- wife; 
and  all  your  best  friends  would  desert  you.” 

‘‘One  moment,”  said  Vendale,  interposing  on  his  side. 
“ I may  claim,  without  any  great  arrogance,  to  know  more 
of  my  country-people  in  general,  and  of  my  own  friends  in 
particular,  than  you  do.  In  the  estimation  of  everybody 
whose  opinion  is  worth  having,  my  wife  herself  would  be 
the  one  sufficient  justification  of  my  marriage.  If  I did 
not  feel  certain — observe,  I say  certain — that  I am  offering 
her  a position  which  she  can  accept  without  so  much  as  the 
shadow  of  a humiliation — I would  never  (cost  me  what  it 
might)  have  asked  her  to  be  my  wife.  Is  there  any  other 
obstacle  that  you  see?  Have  you  any  personal  objection 
to  me?  ” 

Obenreizer  spread  out  both  his  hands  in  courteous  pro- 
test. “ Personal  objection ! ” he  exclaimed.  “ Dear  sir, 
the  bare  question  is  painful  to  me.” 

“We  are  both  men  of  business,”  pTirsued  Vendale,  “and 


64 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


you  naturally  expect  me  to  satisfy  you  that  I have  the 
means  of  supporting  a wife.  I can  explain  my  pecuniary 
position  in  two  words.  I inherit  from  my  parents  a for- 
tune of  twenty  thousand  pounds.  In  half  of  that  sum  I 
have  only  a life-interest,  to  which,  if  I die,  leaving  a 
widow,  my  ' ‘low  succeeds.  If  I die,  leaving  children, 
the  money  itself  is  divided  among  them,  as  they  come  of 
age.  ^ The  other  half  of  my  fortune  is  at  my  own  disposal, 
and  is  invested  in  the  wine-business.  I see  my  way  to 
greatly  improving  that  business.  As  it  stands  at  present, 
I cannot  state  my  return  from  my  capital  embarked  at 
more  than  twelve  hundred  a year.  Add  the  yearly  value 
of  my  life-interest— and  the  total  reaches  a present  annual 
income  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds.  I have  the  fairest  pros- 
pect of  soon  making  it  more.  In  the  mean  time,  do  you 
object  to  me  on  pecuniary  grounds? 

Driven  back  to  his  last  entrenchment,  Obenreizer  rose, 
and  took  a turn  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  room.  For 
the  moment,  he  was  plainly  at  a loss  what  to  say  or  do 
next. 

Before  I answer  that  last  question,”  he  said,  after  a 
little  close  consideration  with  himself,  I beg  leave  to  re- 
vert for  a moment  to  Miss  Marguerite.  You  said  some- 
thing just  now  which  seemed  to  imply  that  she  returns  the 
sentiment  with  which  you  are  pleased  to  regard  her?  ” 

I have  the  inestimable  happiness,”  said  Vendale,  ^‘of« 
knowing  that  she  loves  me.” 

Obenreizer  stood  silent  for  a moment,  with  the  film  over 
his  eyes,  and  the  faintly  perceptible  beat  becoming  visible 
again  in  his  cheeks. 

If  you  will  excuse  me  for  a few  minutes,”  he  said,  with 
ceremonious  politeness,  I should  like  to  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  my  niece.”  With  those  words,  he 
bowed,  and  quitted  the  room. 

Left  by  himself,  Vendale’s  thoughts  (as  a necessary  re- 
sult of  the  interview,  thus  far)  turned  instinctively  to  the 
consideration  of  Obenreizer’ s motives.  He  had  put  ob- 
stacles in  the  way  of  the  courtship;  he  was  now  putting 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  the  marriage — a marriage  offering 
advantages  which  even  his  ingenuity  could  not  dispute. 
On  the  face  of  it,  his  conduct  was  incomprehensible. 
What  did  it  mean? 

Seeking,  under  the  surface,  for  the  answer  to  that  ques- 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


65 


tion — and  remembering  that  Obenreizer  was  a man  of  about 
his  own  age;  also,  that  Marguerite  was,  strictly  speaking, 
his  half-niece  only — Vendale  asked  himself,  with  a lover’s 
ready  jealousy,  whether  he  had  a rival  to  fear,  as  well  as  a 
guardian  to  conciliate.  The  thought  just  crossed  his  mind, 
and  no  more.  The  sense  of  Marguerite’s  kiss  still  lingering 
on  his  cheek  reminded  him  gently  that  even  the  jealousy  of 
a moment  was  now  a treason  to  her. 

On  reflection,  it  seemed  most  likely  that  a personal  mo- 
tive of  another  kind  might  suggest  the  true  explanation  of 
Obenreizer’ s conduct.  Marguerite’s  grace  and  beauty  were 
precious  ornaments  in  that  little  household.  They  gave  it  a 
special  social  attraction  and  a special  social  importance. 
They  armed  Obenreizer  with  a certain  influence  in  reserve, 
which  he  could  always  depend  upon  to  make  his  house  at- 
tractive, and  which  he  might  always  bring  more  or  less  to 
bear  on  the  forwarding  of  his  own  private  ends.  Was  he 
the  sort  of  man  to  resign  such  advantages  as  were  here  im- 
plied, without  obtaining  the  fullest  possible  compensation 
for  the  loss?  A connection  by  marriage  with  Vendale 
offered  him  solid  advantages,  beyond  all  doubt.  But  there 
were  hundreds  of  men  in  London  with  far  greater  power 
and  far  wider  influence  than  Vendale  possessed.  Was  it 
possible  that  this  man’s  ambition  secretly  looked  higher 
than  the  highest  prospects  that  could  be  offered  to  him  by 
the  alliance  now  proposed  for  his  niece?  As  the  question 
passed  through  Vendale’ s mind,  the  man  himself  reap- 
peared to  answer  it,  or  not  to  answer  it,  as  the  event  might 
prove. 

A marked  change  was  visible  in  Obenreizer  when  he  re- 
sumed his  place.  His  manner  was  less  assured,  and  there 
were  plain  traces  about  his  mouth  of  recent  agitation  which 
had  not  been  successfully  composed.  Had  he  said  some- 
thing, referring  either  to  Vendale  or  to  himself,  which  had 
roused  Marguerite’s  spirit,  and  which  had  placed  him,  for 
the  first  time,  face  to  face  with  a resolute  assertion  of  his 
niece’s  will?  It  might  or  might  not  be.  This  only  was 
certain — he  looked  like  a man  who  had  met  with  a repulse. 

have  spoken  to  my  niece,”  he  began.  find,  Mr. 
Vendale,  that  even  your  influence  has  not  entirely  blinded 
her  to  the  social  objections  to  your  proposal.” 

‘^May  I ask,”  returned  Vendale,  ^^if  that  is  the  only  re- 
sult of  your  interview  with  Miss  Obenreizer?  ” 


66 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


A momentary  flash  leapt  out  through  the  Obenreizer  film. 
''You  are  master  of  the  situation/^  he  answered,  in  a 
tone  of  sardonic  submission.  " If  you  insist  on  my  admit- 
ting it,  I do  admit  it  in  those  words.  My  niece’s  will  and 
mine  us^d  to  be  one,  Mr.  Vendale.  You  have  come  be- 
tween us,  and  her  will  is  now  yours.  In  my  country,  we 
know  when  we  are  beaten,  and  we  submit  with  our  best 
grace.  I submit,  with  my  best  grace,  on  certain  condi- 
tions. Let  us  revert  to  the  statement  of  your  pecuniary 
position.  I have  an  objection  to  you,  my  dear  sir — a most 
amazing,  a most  audacious  objection,  from  a man  in  my 
position  to  a man  in  yours.” 

"What  is  it?” 

You  have  honoured  me  by  making  a proposal  for  my 
niece’s  hand.  For  the  present  (with  best  thanks  and  re- 
spects), I beg  to  decline  it.” 

"Why?  ” 

" Because  you  are  not  rich  enough.” 

The  objection,  as  the  speaker  had  foreseen,  took  Vendale 
completely  by  surprise.  For  the  moment  he  was  speechless. 

"Your  income  is  fifteen  hundred  a year,”  pursued  Oben- 
reizer. " In  my  miserable  country  I should  fall  on  my 
knees  before  your  income,  and  say,  ' What  a princely  for- 
tune! ’ In  wealthy  England,  I sit  as  I am,  and  say,  ' A 
modest  independence,  dear  sir;  nothing  more.  Enough, 
perhaps,  for  a wife  in  your  own  rank  of  life,  who  had  no 
social  prejudices  to  conquer.  Not  more  than  half  enough 
for  a wife  who  is  a meanly  born  foreigner,  and  who  has  all 
your  social  prejudices  against  her.’  Sir!  if  my  niece  is 
ever  to  marry  you,  she  will  have  what  you  call  uphill  work 
of  it  in  taking  her  place  at  starting.  Yes,  yes;  this  is  not 
your  view,  but  it  remains,  immovably  remains,  my  view 
for  all  that.  For  my  niece’s  sake,  I claim  that  this  uphill 
work  shall  be  made  as  smooth  as  possible.  Whatever  ma- 
terial advantages  she  can  have  to  help  her,  ought,  in  com- 
mon justice,  to  be  hers.  Now,  tell  me,  Mr.  Vendale,  on 
your  fifteen  hundred  a year  can  your  wife  have  a house  in  a 
fashionable  quarter,  a footman  to  open  her  door,  a butler  to 
wait  at  her  table,  and  a carriage  and  horses  to  drive  about 
in?  I see  the  answer  in  your  face — your  face  says.  No. 
Very  good.  Tell  me  one  more  thing,  and  I have  done. 
Take  the  mass  of  your  educated,  accomplished,  and  lovely 
countrywomen,  is  it,  or  is  it  not,  the  fact  that  a lady  who 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


67 


has  a house  in  a fashionable  quarter,  a footman  to  open  her 
door,  a butler  to  wait  at  her  table,  and  a carriage  and  horses 
to  drive  about  in,  is  a lady  who  has  gained  four  steps,  in 
female  estimation,  at  starting?  Yes?  or  No?  ” 

‘‘Come  to  the  point,”  said  Vendale.  “You  view  this 
question  as  a question  of  terms.  What  are  your  terms?  ” 

“ The  lowest  terms,  dear  sir,  on  which  you  can  provide 
your  wife  with  those  four  steps  at  starting.  Double  your 
present  income — the  most  rigid  economy  cannot  do  it  in 
England  on  less.  You  said  just  now  that  you  expected 
greatly  to  increase  the  value  of  your  business.  To  work — 
and  increase  it ! I am  a good  devil  after  all ! On  the  day 
when  you  satisfy  me,  by  plain  proofs,  that  your  income  has 
risen  to  three  thousand  a year,  ask  me  for  my  niece’s  hand, 
and  it  is  yours.” 

“ May  I inquire  if  you  have  mentioned  this  arrangement 
to  Miss  Obenreizer?  ” 

“ Certainly.  She  has  a last  little  morsel  of  regard  still 
left  for  me,  Mr.  Vendale,  which  is  not  yours  yet;  and  she 
accepts  my  terms.  In  other  words,  she  submits  to  be 
guided  by  her  guardian’s  regard  for  her  welfare,  and  by 
her  guardian’s  superior  knowledge  of  the  world.”  He 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  in  firm  reliance  on  his 
position,  and  in  full  possession  of  his  excellent  temper. 

Any  open  assertion  of  his  own  interests,  in  the  situation 
in  which  Vendale  was  now  placed,  seemed  to  be  (for  the 
present  at  least)  hopeless.  He  found  himself  literally  left 
with  no  ground  to  stand  on.  Whether  Obenreizer’s  objec- 
tions were  the  genuine  product  of  Obenreizer’s  own  view  of 
the  case,  or  whether  he  was  simply  delaying  the  marriage 
in  the  hope  of  ultimately  breaking  it  off  altogether — in 
either  of  these  events,  any  present  resistance  on  Vendale’ s 
part  would  be  equally  useless.  There  was  no  help  for  it 
but  to  yield,  making  the  best  terms  that  he  could  on  his 
own  side. 

“I  protest  against  the  conditions  you  impose  on  me,”  he 
began. 

“Naturally,”  said  Obenreizer;  “I  dare  say  I should  pro- 
test, myself,  in  your  place.” 

“Say,  however,”  pursued  Vendale,  “that  I accept  your 
terms.  In  that  case,  I must  be  permitted  to  make  two 
stipulations  on  my  part.  In  the  first  place,  I shall  expect 
to  be  allowed  to  see  your  niece.” 


68 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


Aha ! to  see  my  niece?  and  to  make  her  in  as  great  a 
hurry  to  be  married  as  you  are  yourself?  Suppose  I say, 
No?  you  would  see  her  perhaps  without  my  permission?”  ’ 
Decidedly ! 

^^How  delightfully  frank!  How  exquisitely  English! 
You  shall  see  her,  Mr.  Vendale,  on  certain  days,  which  we 
will  appoint  together.  What  next? 

“ Your  objection  to  my  income,”  proceeded  Vendale,  “ has 
taken  me  completely  by  surprise.  I wish  to  be  assured 
against  any  repetition  of  that  surprise.  Your  present 
views  of  my  qualification  for  marriage  require  me  to  have 
an  income  of  three  thousand  a year.  Can  I be  certain,  in 
the  future,  as  your  experience  of  England  enlarges,  that 
your  estimate  will  rise  no  higher?  ” 

“In  plain  English,”  said  Obenreizer,  “you  doubt  my 
word?  ” > J J 

“ Do  you  purpose  to  take  my  word  for  it  when  I inform 
you  that  I have  doubled  my  income?  ” asked  Vendale.  “ If 
my  memory  does  not  deceive  me,  you  stipulated,  a minute 
since,  for  plain  proofs?” 

“Well  played,  Mr.  Vendale!  You  combine  the  foreign 
quickness  with  the  English  solidity.  Accept  my  best  con- 
gratulations. Accept,  also,  my  written  guarantee.” 

He  rose;  seated  himself  at  a writing-desk  at  a side-table, 
wrote  a few  lines,  and  presented  them  to  Vendale  with  a 
low  bow.  The  engagement  was  perfectly  explicit,  and  was 
signed  and  dated  with  scrupulous  care. 

“Are  you  satisfied  with  your  guarantee?” 

“I  am  satisfied.” 

“ Charmed  to  hear  it,  I am  sure.  We  have  had  our  little 
skirmish — we  have  really  been  wonderfully  clever  on  both 
sides.  For  the  present  our  affairs  are  settled.  I bear  no 
malice.  You  bear  no  malice.  Come,  Mr.  Vendale,  a good 
English  shake  hands.” 

Vendale  gave  his  hand,  a little  bewildered  by  Obenrei- 
zer’s sudden  transitions  from  one  humour  to  another. 

“ When  may  I expect  to  see  Miss  Obenreizer  again?  ” he 
asked,  as  he  rose  to  go. 

“Honour  me  with  a visit  to-morrow,”  said  Obenreizer, 
“and  we  will  settle  it  then.  Do  have  a grog  before  you 
go!  No?  Well!  well!  we  will  reserve  the  grog  till  you 
have  your  three  thousand  a year,  and  are  ready  to  be  mar- 
ried. Aha!  When  will  that  be?” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


69 


made  an  estimate,  some  months  since,  of  the  ca})ae- 
ities  of  my  business,”  said  Vendale.  ‘‘If  that  estimate  is 
correct,  I shall  double  my  present  income ” 

“ And  be  married ! ” added  Obenreizer. 

“And  be  married,”  repeated  Vendale,  “within  a year 
from  this  time.  Good  night.” 

VENDALE  MAKES  MISCHIEF. 

When  Vendale  entered  his  office  the  next  morning,  the 
dull  commercial  routine  at  Cripple  Corner  met  him  with  a 
new  face.  Marguerite  had  an  interest  in  it  now!  The 
whole  machinery  which  Wilding’s  death  had  set  in  motion, 
to  realise  the  value  of  the  business — the  balancing  of  ledg- 
ers, the  estimating  of  debts,  the  taking  of  stock,  and  the 
rest  of  it — was  now  transformed  into  machinery  which  indi- 
cated the  chances  for  and  against  a speedy  marriage. 
After  looking  over  results,  as  presented  by  his  accountant, 
land  checking  additions  and  subtractions,  as  rendered  by 
the  clerks,  Vendale  turned  his  attention  to  the  stock-taking 
department  next,  and  sent  a message  to  the  cellars,  desir- 
ing to  see  the  report. 

The  Cellarman’s  appearance,  the  moment  he  put  his  head 
in  at  the  door  of  his  master’s  private  room,  suggested  that 
something  very  extraordinary  must  have  happened  that 
morning.  There  was  an  approach  to  alacrity  in  Joey 
Ladle’s  movements ! There  was  something  which  actually 
simulated  cheerfulness  in  Joey  Ladle’s  face! 

“What’s  the  matter?”  asked  Vendale.  “Anything 
wrong?  ” 

“I  should  wish  to  mention  one  thing,”  answered  Joey. 
“ Young  Mr.  Vendale,  I have  never  set  myself  up  for  a 
prophet.” 

“Who  ever  said  you  did? ” 

“ No  prophet,  as  far  as  I’ve  heard  tell  of  that  profession,” 
proceeded  Joey,  “ever  lived  principally  underground.  No 
prophet,  whatever  else  he  might  take  in  at  the  pores,  ever 
took  in  wine  from  morning  to  night,  for  a number  of  years 
together.  When  I said  to  young  Master  Wilding,  respect- 
ing his  changing  the  name  of  the  firm,  that  one  of  these 
days  he  might  find  he’d  changed  the  luck  of  the  firm — did 
I put  myself  forward  as  a prophet?  No,  I didn’t.  Has 
what  I said  to  him  come  true?  Yes,  it  has.  In  the  time 


70 


NO  THOKOUGHFARE. 


of  Pebbleson  Nephew,  Young  Mr  Vendale,  no  such  thing 
was  ever  known  as  a mistake  made  in  a consignment  deliv- 
eied  at  these  doors.  There’s  a mistake  been  made  now. 
Please  to  remark  that  it  happened  before  Miss  Margaret 
came  here.  For  which  reason  it  don’t  go  against  what  I’ve 
said  respecting  Miss  Margaret  singing  round  the  luck. 
Read  that,  sir,”  concluded  Joey,  pointing  attention  to  a 
special  passage  in  the  report,  with  a forefinger  which  ap- 
peared to  be  in  process  of  taking  in  through  the  pores  noth- 
ing more  remarkable  than  dirt.  It’s  foreign  to  my  nature 
to  crow  over  the  house  I serve,  but  I feel  it  a kind  of  a sol- 
emn duty  to  ask  you  to  read  that.” 

Vendale  read  as  follows:  ‘^Note,  respecting  the  Swiss 
champagne.  An  irregularity  has  been  discovered  in  the 
last  consignment  received  from  the  firm  of  Defresnier  and 
Co.”  Vendale  stopped,  and  referred  to  a memorandum- 
book  by  his  side.  ''That  was  in  Mr.  Wilding’s  time,”  he 
said.  "The  vintage  was  a particularly  good  one,  and  he 
took  the  whole  of  it.  The  Swiss  champagne  has  done  verv 
well,  hasn’t  it?  ” 

"I  don’t  say  it’s  done^  badly,”  answered  the  Cellarman. 
"It  may  have  got  sick  in  our  customers’  bins,  or  it  may 
have  bust  in  our  customers’  hands.  But  I don’t  say  it’s 
done  badly  with  us,^^ 

Vendale  resumed  the  reading  of  the  note:  "We  find  the 
number  of  the  cases  to  be  quite  correct  by  the  books.  But 
six  of  them,  which  present  a slight  difference  from  the  rest 
in  the  brand,  have  been  opened,  and  have  been  found  to 
contain  a red  wine  instead  of  champagne.  The  similarity 
in  the  brands,  we  suppose,  caused  a mistake  to  be  made  in 
sending  the  consignment  from  Neuchatel.  The  error  has 
not  been  found  to  extend  beyond  six  cases.” 

" Is  that  all ! ” exclaimed  Vendale,  tossing  the  note  away 
from  him. 

Joey  Ladle’s  eye  followed  the  flying  morsel  of  paper 
drearily. 

" I’m  glad  to  see  you  take  it  easy,  sir,”  he  said.  " What- 
ever happens,  it  will  be  always  a comfort  to  you  to  remem- 
ber that  you  took  it  easy  at  first.  Sometimes  one  mistake 
leads  to  another  A man  drops  a bit  of  orange-peel  on  the 
pavement  by  mistake,  and  another  man  treads  on  it  by  mis- 
take, and  there’s  a job  at  the  hospital,  and  a party  crippled 
for  life.  I’m  glad  you  take  it  easy,  sir.  In  Pebbleson 


NO  THOROUGHFARE.  Yl 

Nephew^s  time  we  shouldn’t  have  taken  it  easy  till  we  had 
seen  the  end  of  it.  Without  desiring  to  crow  over  the 
house,  Young  Mr.  Vendale,  I wish  you  well  through  it. 
No  offence,  sir,”  said  the  Cellarman,  opening  the  door  to 
go  out,  and  looking  in  again  ominously  before  he  shut  it. 
^‘I’m  muddled  and  molloncolly,  I grant  you.  But  I’m  an 
old  servant  of  Pebbleson  Nephew,  and  I wish  you  well 
through  them  six  cases  of  red  wine.” 

Left  by  himself,  Vendale  laughed,  and  took  up  his  pen. 
may  as  well  send  a line  to  Defresnier  and  Company,” 
he  thought,  “before  I forget  it.”  He  wrote  at  once  in 
these  terms: 

“Dear  Sirs.  We  are  taking  stock,  and  a trifling  mistake 
has  been  discovered  in  the  last  consignment  of  champagne 
:sent  by  your  house  to  ours.  Six  of  the  cases  contain  red 
wine — which  we  hereby  return  to  you.  The  matter  can 
easily  be  set  right,  either  by  your  sending  us  six  cases  of 
jthe  champagne,  if  they  can  be  produced,  or,  if  not,  by  your 
crediting  us  with  the  value  of  six  cases  on  the  amount  last 
paid  (five  hundred  pounds)  by  our  firm  to  yours.  Your 
faithful  servants.  Wilding  and  Co.” 

This  letter  despatched  to  the  post,  the  subject  dropped 
at  once  out  of  Vendale’s  mind.  He  had  other  and  far  more 
interesting  matters  to  think  of.  Later  in  the  day  he  paid 
bhe  visit  to  Obenreizer  which  had  been  agreed  on  between 
bhem.  Certain  evenings  in  the  week  were  set  apart  which 
be  was  privileged  to  spend  with  Marguerite — always,  how- 
3ver,  in  the  presence  of  a third  person.  On  this  stipulation 
Dbenreizer  politely  but  positively  insisted.  The  one  con- 
3ession  he  made  was  to  give  Vendale  his  choice  of  who  the 
:hird  person  should  be.  Confiding  in  past  experience,  his 
choice  fell  unhesitatingly  upon  the  excellent  woman  who 
nended  Obenreizer’ s stockings.  On  hearing  of  the  respon- 
;ibility  entrusted  to  her,  Madame  Dor’s  intellectual  nature 
mrst  suddenly  into  a new  stage  of  development.  She 
vaited  till  Obenreizer’s  eye  was  off  her —and  then  she 
ooked  at  Vendale  and  dimly  winked. 

The  time  passed — the  happy  evenings  with  Marguerite 
;ame  and  went.  It  was  the  tenth  morning  since  Vendale 
Tad  written  to  the  Swiss  firm,  when  the  answer  appeared 
m his  desk,  with  the  other  letters  of  the  day : 


72 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


‘‘Dear  Sirs.  We  beg  to  offer  our  excuses  for  tbe  little 
mistake  which  has  happened.  At  the  same  time,  we  regret 
to  add  that  the  statement  of  our  error,  with  which  you  have 
favoured  us,  has  led  to  a very  unexpected  discovery.  The 
affair  is  a most  serious  one  for  you  and  for  us.  The  par- 
ticulars are  as  follows : 

“ Having  no  more  champagne  of  the  vintage  last  sent  to 
you,  we  made  arrangements  to  credit  your  firm  with  the 
value  of  the  six  cases,  as  suggested  by  yourself.  On  tak- 
ing this  step,  certain  forms  observed  in  our  mode  of  doing 
business  necessitated  a reference  to  our  bankers’  book,  as 
well  as  to  our  ledger.  The  result  is  a moral  certainty  that 
no  such  remittance  as  you  mention  can  have  reached  our 
house,  and  a literal  certainty  that  no  such  remittance  has 
been  paid  to  our  account  at  the  bank. 

“It  is  needless,  at  this  stage  of  the  proceedings,  to 
trouble  you  with  details.  The  money  has  unquestionably 
been  stolen  in  the  course  of  its  transit  from  you  to  us.  Cer- 
tain peculiarities  which  we  observe,  relating  to  the  manner 
in  which  the  fraud  has  been  perpetrated,  lead  us  to  con- 
clude that  the  thief  may  have  calculated  on  being  able  to 
pay  the  missing  sum  to  our  bankers,  before  an  inevitable 
discovery  followed  the  annual  striking  of  our  balance. 
This  would  not  have  happened,  in  the  usual  course,  for  an- 
other three  months.  During  that  period,  but  for  your  let- 
ter, we  might  have  remained  perfectly  unconscious  of  the 
robbery  that  has  been  committed. 

“We  mention  this  last  circumstance,  as  it  may  help  to 
show  you  that  we  have  to  do,  in  this  case,  with  no  ordinary 
thief.  Thus  far  we  have  not  even  a suspicion  of  who  that 
thief  is.  But  we  believe  you  will  assist  us  in  making  some 
advance  towards  discovery,  by  examining  the  receipt 
(forged,  of  course)  which  has  no  doubt  purported  to  come 
to  you  from  our  house.  Be  pleased  to  look  and  see  whether 
it  is  a receipt  entirely  in  manuscript,  or  whether  it  is  a num- 
bered and  printed  form  which  merely  requires  the  filling  in 
of  the  amount.  The  settlement  of  this  apparently  trivial 
question  is,  we  assure  you,  a matter  of  vital  importance. 
Anxiously  awaiting  your  reply,  we  remain,  with  high  es- 
teem and  consideration, 

“Defresnier  & 

Vendale  laid  the  letter  on  his  desk,  and  waited  a moment 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


73 


to  steady  his  mind  under  the  shock  that  had  fallen  on  it. 
At  the  time  of  all  others  when  it  was  most  important  to 
him  to  increase  the  value  of  his  business,  that  business  was 
threatened  with  a loss  of  five  hundred  pounds.  He  thought 
of  Marguerite,  as  he  took  the  key  from  his  pocket  and  opened 
the  iron  chamber  in  the  wall  in  which  the  books  and  papers 
of  the  firm  were  kept. 

He  was  still  in  the  chamber,  searching  for  the  forged 
receipt,  when  he  was  startled  by  a voice  speaking  close  be- 
hind him. 

‘‘A  thousand  pardons,’^  said  the  voice;  am  afraid  I 
disturb  you.’^ 

He  turned,  and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Margue- 
rite’s guardian. 

have  called,”  pursued  Obenreizer,  know  if  I can 
be  of  any  use.  Business  of  my  own  takes  me  away  for 
5ome  days  to  Manchester  and  Liverpool.  Can  I combine 
any  business  of  yours  with  it?  I am  entirely  at  your  dis- 
posal, in  the  character  of  commercial  traveller  for  the  firm 
|of  Wilding  and  Co.” 

Excuse  me  for  one  moment,”  said  Vendale;  will 
speak  to  you  directly.”  He  turned  round  again,  and  con- 
tinued his  search  among  the  papers.  You  come  at  a time 
when  friendly  offers  are  more  than  usually  precious  to  me,” 
he  resumed.  have  had  very  bad  news  this  morning 
from  Neuchatel.” 

“ Bad  news ! ” exclaimed  Obenreizer.  From  Defresnier 
ind  Company?  ” 

Yes.  A remittance  we  sent  to  them  has  been  stolen. 
[ am  threatened  with  a loss  of  five  hundred  pounds. 
What’s  that?  ” 

; Turning  sharply,  and  looking  into  the  room  for  the  sec- 
Dnd  time,  Vendale  discovered  his  envelope-case  overthrown 
m the  fioor,  and  Obenreizer  on  his  knees  picking  up  the 
contents. 

, All  my  awkwardness ! ” said  Obenreizer.  “ This  dread- 

'ul  news  of  yours  startled  me;  I stepped  back ” He 

3ecame  too  deeply  interested  in  collecting  the  scattered  en- 
?'elopes  to  finish  the  sentence. 

‘‘Don’t  trouble  yourself,”  said  Vendale.  “The  clerk 
will  pick  the  things  up.” 

“ This  dreadful  news ! ” repeated  Obenreizer,  persisting 
n collecting  the  envelopes.  “ This  dreadful  news ! ” 


74 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


‘‘If  you  will  read  the  letter/’  said  Vendale,  “you  will 
find  I have  exaggerated  nothing.  There  it  is,  open  on  my 
desk.” 

He  resumed  his  search,  and  in  a moment  more  discovered 
the  forged  receipt.  It  was  on  the  numbered  and  printed 
form,  described  by  the  Swiss  firm.  Vendale  made  a mem- 
orandum of  the  number  and  the  date.  Having  replaced 
the  receipt  and  locked  up  the  iron  chamber,  he  had  leisure 
to  notice  Obenreizer,  reading  the  letter  in  the  recess  of  a 
window  at  the  far  end  of  the  room. 

“Come  to  the  fire,”  said  Vendale.  “You  look  perished 
with  the  cold  out  there.  I will  ring  for  some  more  coals.” 
Obenreizer  rose,  and  came  slowly  back  to  the  desk. 
“Marguerite  will  be  as  sorry  to  hear  of  this  as  I am,”  he 
said,  kindly.  “ What  do  you  mean  to  do?  ” 

“I  am  in  the  hands  of  Defresnier  and  Company,”  an- 
swered Vendale.  “ In  my  total  ignorance  of  the  circum- 
stances, I can  only  do  what  they  recommend.  The  receipt 
which  I have  just  found,  turns  out  to  be  the  numbered  and 
printed  form.  They  seem  to  attach  some  special  impor- 
tance to  its  discovery.  You  have  had  experience,  when 
you  were  in  the  Swiss  house,  of  their  way  of  doiug  busi- 
ness. Can  you  guess  what  object  they  have  in  view?  ” 
Obenreizer  offered  a suggestion. 

“ Suppose  I examine  the  receipt?  ” he  said. 

“Are  you  ill?  ” asked  Vendale,  startled  by  the  change  in 
his  face,  which  now  showed  itself  plainly  for  the  first  time. 
“ Pray  go  to  the  fire.  You  seem  to  be  shivering — I hope 
you  are  not  going  to  be  ill?  ” 

“Not  I!”  said  Obenreizer.  “Perhaps  I have  caught 
cold.  Your  English  climate  might  have  spared  an  admirer 
of  your  English  institutions.  Let  me  look  at  the  receipt.” 
Vendale  opened  the  iron  chamber.  Obenreizer  took  a 
chair,  and  drew  it  close  to  the  fire.  He  held  both  hands 
over  the  flames.  “Let  me  look  at  the  receipt,”  he  re- 
peated, eagerly,  as  Vendale  reappeared  with  the  paper  in 
his  hand.  At  the  same  moment  a porter  entered  the  room 
with  a fresh  supply  of  coals.  Vendale  told  him  to  make  a 
good  fire.  The  man  obeyed  the  order  with  a disastrous 
alacrity.  As  he  stepped  forward  and  raised  the  scuttle, 
his  foot  caught  in  a fold  of  the  rug,  and  he  discharged  his 
entire  cargo  of  coals  into  the  grate.  The  result  was  an  in- 
stant smothering  of  the  flame,  and  the  production  of  a 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


75 


stream  of  yellow  smoke,  without  a visible  morsel  of  fire 
to  account  for  it. 

Imbecile ! ” whispered  Obenreizer  to  himself,  with  a 
look  at  the  man  which  the  man  remembered  for  many  a 
long  day  afterwards. 

Will  you  come  into  the  clerks’  room?  ” asked  Vendale. 
^^They  have  a stove  there.” 

* ^^No,  no.  No  matter.” 

Vendale  handed  him  the  receipt.  Obenreizer’ s interest 
in  examining  it  appeared  to  have  been  quenched  as  sud- 
denly and  as  effectually  as  the  fire  itself.  He  just  glanced 
over  the  document,  and  said,  ^^No;  I don’t  understand  it! 

I am  sorry  to  be  of  no  use.” 

will  write  to  Neuchatel  by  to-night’s  post,”  said  Ven- 
dale, putting  away  the  receipt  for  the  second  time.  We 
!must  wait,  and  see  what  comes  of  it.” 

^^By  to-night’s  post,”  repeated  Obenreizer.  ^^Let  me 
fSee.  You  will  get  the  answer  in  eight  or  nine  days’  time. 

II  shall  be  back  before  that.  If  I can  be  of  any  service,  as 
commercial  traveller,  perhaps  you  will  let  me  know  between 
this  and  then.  You  will  send  me  written  instructions? 
My  best  thanks.  I shall  be  most  anxious  for  your  answer 
from  Neuchatel.  Who  knows?  It  may  be  a mistake,  my 
dear  friend,  after  all.  Courage ! courage ! courage ! ” He 
had  entered  the  room  with  no  appearance  of  being  pressed 
for  time.  He  now  snatched  up  his  hat,  and  took  his  leave 
with  the  air  of  a man  who  had  not  another  moment  to 
lose. 

Left  by  himself,  Vendale  took  a turn  thoughtfully  in  the 
room. 

His  previous  impression  of  Obenreizer  was  shaken  by 
what  he  had  heard  and  seen  at  the  interview  which  had 
^just  taken  place.  He  was  disposed,  for  the  first  time,  to 
doubt  whether,  in  this  case,  he  had  not  been  a little  hasty 
ijUnd  hard  in  his  judgment  on  another  man.  Obenreizer’s 
surprise  and  regret,  on  hearing  the  news  from  Neuchatel, 
rbore  the  plainest  marks  of  being  honestly  felt — not  politely 
^assumed  for  the  occasion.  With  troubles  of  his  own  to  en- 
rcounter,  suffering,  to  all  appearance,  from  the  first  insidious 
attack  of  a serious  illness,  he  had  looked  and  spoken  like 
a man  who  really  deplored  the  disaster  that  had  fallen  oh 
his  friend.  Hitherto,  Vendale  had  tried  vainly  to  alter  his 
^ first  opinion  of  Marguerite’s  guardian,  for  Marguerite’s 


76 


NO  TITOROUGIIFARE. 


sake.  All  the  generous  instincts  in  his  nature  now  com- 
bined together  and  shook  the  evidence  which  had  seemed 
unanswerable  up  to  this  time.  ^^Who  knows? he 
thought,  ^^1  may  have  read  that  man’s  face  wrongly,  after 
all.” 

The  time  passed — the  happy  evenings  with  Marguerite 
came  and  went.  It  was  again  the  tenth  morning  since 
Vendale  had  written  to  the  Swiss  firm;  and  again  the  an- 
swer appeared  on  his  desk  with  the  other  letters  of  the 
day. 

''  Dear  Sir.  My  senior  partner,  M.  Defresnier,  has  been 
called  away,  by  urgent  business,  to  Milan.  In  his  absence 
(and  with  his  full  concurrence  and  authority),  I now  write 
you  again  on  the  subject  of  the  missing  five  hundred 
pounds. 

Your  discovery  that  the  forged  receipt  is  executed  upon 
one  of  our  numbered  and  printed  forms  has  caused  inex- 
pressible surprise  and  distress  to  my  partner  and  to  myself. 
At  the  time  when  your  remittance  was  stolen,  but  three 
keys  were  in  existence  opening  the  strong  box  in  which  our 
receipt-forms  are  invariably  kept.  My  partner  had  one 
key;  I had  the  other.  The  third  was  in  the  possession 
of  a gentleman  who,  at  that  period,  occupied  a position  of 
trust  in  our  house.  We  should  as  soon  have  thought  of 
suspecting  one  of  ourselves  as  of  suspecting  this  person. 
Suspicion  now  points  at  him,  nevertheless.  I cannot  pre- 
vail on  myself  to  inform  you  who  the  person  is,  so  long  as 
there  is  the  shadow  of  a chance  that  he  may  come  inno- 
cently out  of  the  inquiry  which  must  now  be  instituted. 
Forgive  my  silence;  the  motive  of  it  is  good. 

^^The  form  our  investigation  must  now  take  is  simple 
enough.  The  handwriting  on  your  receipt  must  be  com- 
pared, by  competent  persons  whom  we  have  at  our  dis- 
posal, with  certain  specimens  of  handwriting  in  our  pos- 
session. I cannot  send  you  the  specimens,  for  business 
reasons,  which,  when  you  hear  them,  you  are  sure  to  ap- 
prove. I must  beg  you  to.  send  me  the  receipt  to  Neu- 
chg,tel — and,  in  making  this  request,  I must  accompany  it 
by  a word  of  necessary  warning. 

‘‘If  the  person,  at  whom  suspicion  now  points,  really 
proves  to  be  the  person  who  has  committed  this  forgery 
and  theft,  I have  reason  to  fear  that  circumstances  may 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


77 


have  already  put  him  on  his  guard.  The  only  evidence 
igainst  him  is  the  evidence  in  your  hands,  and  he  will 
move  heaven  and  earth  to  obtain  and  destroy  it.  I 
strongly  urge  you  not  to  trust  the  receipt  to  the  post. 
Send  it  to  me,  without  loss  of  time,  by  a private  hand,  and 
jhoose  nobody  for  your  messenger  but  a person  long  estab- 
-ished  in  your  own  employment,  accustomed  to  travelling, 
capable  of  speaking  French;  a man  of  courage,  a man  of 
lonesty,  and,  above  all  things,  a man  who  can  be  trusted 
:o  let  no  stranger  scrape  acquaintance  with  him  on  the 
'oute.  Tell  no  one — absolutely  no  one — but  your  messen- 
ger of  the  turn  this  matter  has  now  taken.  The  safe 
transit  of  the  receipt  may  depend  on  your  interpreting 
'iter ally  the  advice  which  I give  you  at  the  end  of  this 
.etter. 

, I have  only  to  add  that  every  possible  saving  of  time  is 
low  of  the  last  importance.  More  than  one  of  our  receipt- 
mrms  is  missing — and  it  is  impossible  to  say  what  new 
brands  may  not  be  committed,  if  we  fail  to  lay  our  hands 
m the  thief. 

Your  faithful  servant, 

“ Holland, 

‘‘(Signing  for  Defresnier  & C'®).” 

‘ Who  was  the  suspected  man?  In  Vendale’s  position,  it 
seemed  useless  to  inquire. 

Who  was  to  be  sent  to  Neuchatel  with  the  receipt?  Men 
)f  courage  and  men  of  honesty  were  to  be  had  at  Cripple 
Jorner  for  the  asking.  But  where  was  the  man  who  was 
iccustomed  to  foreign  travelling,  who  could  speak  the 
French  language,  and  who  could  be  really  relied  on  to  let 
10  stranger  scrape  acquaintance  with  him  on  his  route? 
There  was  but  one  man  at  hand  who  combined  all  those 
requisites  in  his  own  person,  and  that  man  was  Vendale 
limself. 

It  was  a sacrifice  to  leave  his  business;  it  was  a greater 
I sacrifice  to  leave  Marguerite.  But  a matter  of  five  hundred 
lounds  was  involved  in  the  pending  inquiry;  and  a literal 
nterpretation  of  M.  Holland’s  advice  was  insisted  on  in 
:erms  which  there  was  no  trifling  with.  The  more  Vendale 
, ;h ought  of  it,  the  more  plainly  the  necessity  faced  him,  and 
;aid,  “Go!” 

A As  he  locked  up  the  letter  with  the  receipt,  the  associ- 


78 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


ation  of  ideas  reminded  him  of  Obenreizer.  A guess  at  the 
identity  of  the  suspected  man  looked  more  possible  now. 
Obenreizer  might  know. 

The  thought  had  barely  passed  through  his  mind,  when 
the  door  opened,  and  Obenreizer  entered  the  room. 

They  told  me  at  Soho-square  you  were  expected  back 
last  night, said  Vendale,  greeting  him.  ‘‘Have  you  done 
well  in  the  country?  Are  you  better? 

A thousand  thanks.  Obenreizer  had  done  admirably 
well;  Obenreizer  was  infinitely  better.  And  now,  what 
news?  Any  letter  from  Neuch^tel? 

“A  very  strange  letter,”  answered  Vendale.  “The  mat- 
ter has  taken  a new  turn,  and  the  letter  insists — without 
excepting  anybody — on  my  keeping  our  next  proceedings  a 
profound  secret.” 

“Without  excepting  anybody?”  repeated  Obenreizer. 
As  he  said  the  words,  he  walked  away  again,  thought- 
fully, to  the  window  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  looked 
out  for  a moment,  and  suddenly  came  back  to  Vendale. 
“ Surely  they  must  have  forgotten?  ” he  resumed,  “or  they 
would  have  excepted  me  ? ” 

“It  is  Monsieur  Rolland  who  writes,”  said  Vendale. 
“And,  as  you  say,  he  must  certainly  have  forgotten. 
That  view  of  the  matter  quite  escaped  me.  I was  just 
wishing  I had  you  to  consult,  when  you  came  into  the 
room.  And  here  I am  tied  by  a formal  prohibition,  which 
cannot  possibly  have  been  intended  to  include  you.  How 
very  annoying ! ” 

Obenreizer’s  filmy  eyes  fixed  on  Vendale  attentively. 

“Perhaps  it  is  more  than  annoying!  ” he  said.  “I  came 
this  morning  not  only  to  hear  the  news,  but  to  offer  myself 
as  messenger,  negotiator — what  you  will.  Would  you  be- 
lieve it?  I have  letters  which  oblige  me  to  go  to  Switzer- 
land immediately.  Messages,  documents,  anything — I 
could  have  taken  them  all  to  Defresnier  and  Rolland  for 
you.” 

“You  are  the  very  man  I wanted,”  returned  Vendale. 
“I  had  decided,  most  unwillingly,  on  going  to  Neuch^tel 
myself,  not  five  minutes  since,  because  I could  find  no  one 
here  capable  of  taking  my  place.  Let  me  look  at  the  lettei 
again.” 

He  opened  the  strong  room  to  get  at  the  letter.  Oben- 
reizer, after  first  glancing  round  him  to  make  quite  sure 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


79 


hat  they  were  alone,  followed  a step  or  two  and  waited, 
neasuring  Vendale  with  his  eye.  Vendale  was  the  tallest 
aan,  and  unmistakably  the  strongest  man  also  of  the  two. 
)benreizer  turned  away,  and  warmed  himself  at  the  fire. 

Meanwhile,  Vendale  read  the  last  paragraph  in  the  letter 
or  the  third  time.  There  was  the  plain  warning — there 
yas  the  closing  sentence,  which  insisted  on  a literal  inter- 
pretation of  it.  The  hand,  which  was  leading  Vendale  in 
he  dark,  led  him  on  that  condition  only.  A large  sum 
7as  at  stake : a terrible  suspicion  remained  to  be  verified, 
f he  acted  on  his  own  responsibility,  and  if  anything  hap- 
jjPened  to  defeat  the  object  in  view,  who  would  be  blamed? 
is  a man  of  business,  Vendale  had  but  one  course  to  fol- 
:ow.  He  locked  the  letter  up  again. 

^ ^^It  is  most  annoying,’’  he  said  to  Obenreizer — ^^it  is  a 
I piece  of  forgetfulness  on  Monsieur  Holland’s  part  which 
puts  me  to  serious  inconvenience,  and  places  me  in  an  ab- 
urdly  false  position  towards  you.  What  am  I to  do?  I 
j.m  acting  in  a very  serious  matter,  and  acting  entirely  in 
he  dark.  I have  no  choice  but  to  be  guided,  not  by  the 
pirit,  but  by  the  letter  of  my  instructions.  You  under- 
hand me,  I am  sure?  You  know,  if  I had  not  been  fet- 
sred  in  this  way,  how  gladly  I should  have  accepted  your 
er vices?  ” 

^ Say  no  more ! ” returned  Obenreizer.  In  your  place 
should  have  done  the  same.  My  good  friend,  I take  no 
ffence.  I thank  you  for  your  compliment.  We  shall  be 
ravelling  companions,  at  any  rate,”  added  Obenreizer. 
You  go,  as  I go,  at  once?  ” 

At  once.  I must  speak  to  Marguerite  first,  of  course ! ” 
j Surely ! surel^r ! Speak  to  her  this  evening.  Come, 
.nd  pick  me  up  on  the  way  to  the  station.  We  go  to- 
gether by  the  mail  train  to-night?  ” 

^‘By  the  mail  train  to-night.” 

It  was  later  than  Vendale  had  anticipated  when  he  drove 
p to  the  house  in  Soho-square.  Business  difficulties,  occa- 
sioned by  his  sudden  departure,  had  presented  themselves 
y dozens.  A cruelly  large  share  of  the  time  which  he  had 
, oped  to  devote  to  Marguerite  had  been  claimed  by  duties 
cb  his  office  which  it  was  impossible  to  neglect. 

To  his  surprise  and  delight,  she  was  alone  in  the  draw-* 
ig-room  when  he  entered  it. 

j ‘‘We have  only  a few  minutes,  George,”  she  said,  “But 


80 


KO  THOROUGHFARE. 


Madame  Dor  has  been  good  to  me — and  we  can  have  those 
few  minutes  alone.’’  She  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  whispered  eagerly,  Have  you  done  anything  to  offend 
Mr.  Obenreizer?  ” 

^^I!”  exclaimed  Vendale,  in  amazement. 

Hush ! ” she  said,  I want  to  whisper  it.  You  know 
the  little  photograph  I have  got  of  you.  This  afternoon  it 
happened  to  be  on  the  chimney-piece.  He  took  it  up  and 
looked  at  it — and  I saw  his  face  in  the  glass.  I know  you 
have  offended  him ! He  is  merciless;  he  is  revengeful;  he 
is  as  secret  as  the  grave.  Don’t  go  with  him,  George — 
don’t  go  with  him ! ” 

^‘My  own  love,”  returned  Vendale,  “you  are  letting  your 
fancy  frighten  you ! Obenreizer  and  I were  never  better 
friends  than  we  are  at  this  moment.” 

Before  a word  more  could  be  said,  the  sudden  movement 
of  some  ponderous  body  shook  the  floor  of  the  next  room. 
The  shock  was  followed  by  the  appearance  of  Madame  Dor. 
“ Obenreizer ! ” exclaimed  this  excellent  person  in  a whis- 
per, and  plumped  down  instantly  in  her  regular  place  by 
the  stove. 

Obenreizer  came  in  with  a courier’s  bag  strapped  over  his 
shoulder. 

“ Are  you  ready?  ” he  asked,  addressing  Vendale.  “ Can 
I take  anything  for  you?  You  have  no  travelling-bag.  I 
have  got  one.  Here  is  the  compartment  for  papers,  open 
at  your  service.” 

“ Thank  you,”  said  Vendale.  “ I have  only  one  paper  of 
importance  with  me;  and  that  paper  I am  bound  to  take 
charge  of  myself.  ^Here  it  is,”  he  added,  touching  the 
breast-pocket  of  his  coat,  “ and  here  it  must  remain  till  we 
get  to  Heuchatel.” 

As  he  said  those  words.  Marguerite’s  hand  caught  his, 
and  pressed  it  signiflcantly.  She  was  looking  towards 
Obenreizer.  Before  Vendale  could  look,  in  his  turn,  Oben- 
reizer had  wheeled  round,  and  was  taking  leave  of  Madame 
Dor. 

“ Adieu,  my  charming  niece ! ” he  said,  turning  to  Mar- 
guerite next.  “ En  route,  my  friend,  for  Heuchg,tel ! ” He 
tapped  Vendale  lightly  over  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat, 
and  led  the  way  to  the  door. 

Vendale’s  last  look  was  for  Marguerite.  Marguerite’s 
last  words  to  him  were,  “ Don’t  go ! ” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


81 


1 

1 

I 

I ACT  III. 

IN  THE  VALLEY. 

I It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  month  of  February  when 
[f endale  and  Obenreizer  set  forth  on  their  expedition.  The 
t-nnter  being  a hard  one,  the  time  was  bad  for  travellers. 

; 0 bad  was  it  that  these  two  travellers,  coming  to  Stras- 
bourg, found  its  great  inns  almost  empty.  And  even  the 
|-3w  people  they  did  encounter  in  that  city,  who  had  started 
;/om  England  or  from  Paris  on  business  journeys  towards 
le  interior  of  Switzerland,  were  turning  back. 

; Many  of  the  railroads  in  Switzerland  that  tourists  pass 
asily  enough  now,  were  almost  or  quite  impracticable 
jien.  Some  were  not  begun;  more  were  not  completed, 
'n  such  as  were  open,  there  were  still  large  gaps  of  old 
I lad  where  communication  in  the  winter  season  was  often 
Ibopped;  on  others,  there  were  weak  points  where  the  new 
f'ork  was  not  safe,  either  under  conditions  of  severe  frost, 

• r of  rapid  thaw.  The  running  of  trains  on  this  last  class 
f 'as  not  to  be  counted  on  in  the  worst  time  of  the  year,  was 
I mtingent  upon  weather,  or  was  wholly  abandoned  through 
tie  months  considered  the  most  dangerous. 

I At  Strasbourg  there  were  more  travellers’  stories  afloat, 
pspecting  the  difliculties  of  the  way  further  on,  than  there 
I ere  travellers  to  relate  them.  Many  of  these  tales  were 
15  wild  as  usual;  but  the  more  modestly  marvellous  did 
derive  some  colour  from  the  circumstance  that  people  were 
! idisputably  turning  back.  However,  as  the  road  to  Basle 
l;as  open,  Vendale’s  resolution  to  push  on  was  in  no  wise 
isturbed.  Obenreizer’s  resolution  was  necessarily  Ven- 
ule’s, seeing  that  he  stood  at  bay  thus  desperately : — He 
iust  be  ruined,  or  must  destroy  the  evidence  that  Ven- 
iile  carried  about  him,  even  if  he  destroyed  Vendale  with  it. 
r The  state  of  mind  of  each  of  these  two  fellow-travellers 
•wards  the  other  was  this.  Obenreizer,  encircled  by  im- 
J^nding  ruin  through  Vendale’s  quickness  of  action,  and 
^'-eing  the  circle  narrowed  every  hour  by  Vendale’s  energy, 
ated  him  with  the  animosity  of  a fierce  cunning  lower  ani- 
al.  He  had  always  had  instinctive  movements  in  his  - 
^•east  against  him;  perhaps,  because  of  that  old  sore  of 
mtleman  and  peasant;  perhaps,  because  of  the  openness 

I 


82 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


of  his  nature;  perhaps,  because  of  his  better  looks;  per- 
haps, because  of  his  success  with  Marguerite;  perhaps,  on 
all  those  grounds,  the  two  last  not  the  least.  And  now  he 
saw  in  him,  besides,  the  hunter  who  was  tracking  him 
down.  Vendale,  on  the  other  hand,  always  contending 
generously  against  his  first  vague  mistrust,  now  felt  bound 
to  contend  against  it  more  than  ever : reminding  himself, 
He  is  Marguerite’s  guardian.  We  are  on  perfectly 
friendly  terms;  he  is  my  companion  of  his  own  proposal, 
and  can  have  no  interested  motive  in  sharing  this  undesir- 
able journeyc”  To  which  pleas  in  behalf  of  Obenreizer, 
chance  added  one  consideration  more,  when  they  came  to 
Basle,  after  a journey  of  more  than  twice  the  average  dura- 
tion. 

They  had  had  a late  dinner,  and  were  alone  in  an  inn 
room  there,  overhanging  the  Rhine:  at  that  place  rapid 
and  deep,  swollen  and  loud.  Vendale  lounged  upon  a 
couch,  and  Obenreizer  walked  to  and  fro : now,  stopping  at 
the  window,  looking  at  the  crooked  reflections  of  the  town 
lights  in  the  dark  water  (and  perad venture  thinking,  If  I 
could  fling  him  into  it!  ”);  now,  resuming  his  walk  with  his 
eyes  upon  the  floor. 

Where  shall  I rob  him,  if  I can?  Where  shall  I mur- 
der him,  if  I must?  ” So,  as  he  paced  the  room,  ran  the 
river,  ran  the  river,  ran  the  river. 

The  burden  seemed  to  him  at  last,  to  be  growing  so  plain 
that  he  stopped;  thinking  it  as  well  to  suggest  another  bur- 
den to  his  companion. 

The  Rhine  sounds  to-night,”  he  said  with  a smile,  like 
the  old  waterfall  at  home.  That  waterfall  which  my  mother 
showed  to  travellers  (I  told  you  of  it  once).  The  sound  of 
it  changed  with  the  weather,  as  does  the  sound  of  all  fall- 
ing waters  and  flowing  waters.  When  I was  pupil  of  the 
watch-maker,  I remembered  it  as  sometimes  saying  to  me 
for  whole  days,  ^ Who  are  you,  my  little  wretch?  WhO' 
are  you,  my  little  wretch?  ’ I remembered  it  as  saying, 
other  times,  when  its  sound  was  hollow,  and  storm  was 
coming  up  the  Pass:  ‘ Boom,  boom,  boom.  Beat  him,  beat 
him,  beat  him.’  Like  my  mother  enraged — if  she  was  my 
mother.” 

^‘If  she  was?”  said  Vendale,  gradually  changing  his  at- 
titude to  a sitting  one.  If  she  was?  Why  do  you  say 
i 9 » 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


83 


^^What  do  I know?’’  replied  the  other  negligently, 
'I  throwing  up  his  hands  and  letting  them  fall  as  they  would. 
i^What  would  you  have?  I am  so  obscurely  born,  that 
. how  can  I say?  I was  very  young,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
family  were  men  and  women,  and  my  so-called  parents 
were  old.  Anything  is  possible  of  a case  like  that?  ” 

‘‘Did  you  ever  doubt ?” 

“I  told  you  once,  I doubt  the  marriage  of  those  two,” he 
^replied,  throwing  up  his  hands  again,  as  if  he  were  throw- 
ing the  unprofitable  subject  away.  “But  here  I am  in 
• Creation,  /come  of  no  fine  family.  What  does  it  mat- 
ter? ” 

“At  least  you  are  Swiss,”  said  Vendale,  after  following 
him  with  his  eyes  to  and  fro. 

1 “How  do  I know?”  he  retorted  abruptly,  and  stopping 
^ to  look  back  over  his  shoulder.  “ I say  to  you,  at  least 
you  are  English.  How  do  you  know?  ” 

I “By  what  I have  been  told  from  infancy.” 

“Ah!  I know  of  myself  that  way.” 

' “And,”  added  Vendale,  pursuing  the  thought  that  he 
could  not  drive  back,  “by  my  earliest  recollections.” 

“ I also.  I know  of  myself  that  way — if  that  way  satis- 
fies.” 

“ Does  it  not  satisfy  you?  ” 

“ It  must.  There  is  nothing  like  ‘ it  must  ’ in  this  little 
world.  It  must.  Two  short  words  those,  but  stronger 
than  long  proof  or  reasoning.” 

f “You  and  poor  Wilding  were  born  in  the  same  year. 
You  were  nearly  of  an  age,”  said  Vendale,  again  thought- 
fully looking  after  him  as  he  resumed  his  pacing  up  and 
down. 

“ Yes.  Very  nearly.” 

Could  Obenreizer  be  the  missing  man?  In  the  unknown 
association  of  things,  was  there  a subtler  meaning  than  he 
! himself  thought,  in  that  theory  so  often  on  his  lips  about 
the  smallness  of  the  world?  Had  the  Swiss  letter  present- 
ing him,  followed  so  close  on  Mrs.  Goldstraw’s  revelation 
concerning  the  infant  who  had  been  taken  away  to  Switzer- 
land, because  he  was  that  infant  grown  a man?  In  a world 
where  so  many  depths  lie  unsounded,  it  might  be.  The 
-chances,  or  the  laws — call  them  either — that  had  wrought 
out  the  revival  of  Vendale ’s  own  acquaintance  with  Oben- 
reizer, and  had  ripened  it  into  intimacy,  and  had  brought 


84 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


them  here  together  this  present  winter  night,  were  hardly 
less  curious;  while  read  by  such  a light,  they  were  seen  to 
cohere  towards  the  furtherance  of  a continuous  and  an  in- 
telligible purpose. 

Vendale’s  awakened  thoughts  ran  high  while  his  eyes 
musingly  followed  Obenreizer  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room,  the  river  ever  running  to  the  tune : Where  shall  I 

rob  him,  if  I can?  Where  shall  I murder  him,  if  I must? 
The  secret  of  his  dead  friend  was  in  no  hazard  from  Ven- 
dale’s  lips;  but  just  as  his  friend  had  died  of  its  weight,  so 
did  he  in  his  lighter  succession  feel  the  burden  of  the  tmst, 
and  the  obligation  to  follow  any  clue,  however  obscure. 
He  rapidly  asked  himself,  would  he  like  this  man  to  be  the 
real  Wilding?  No.  Argue  down  his  mistrust  as  he 
might,  he  was  unwilling  to  put  such  a substitute  in  the 
place  of  his  late  guileless,  outspoken,  childlike  partner. 
He  rapidly  asked  himself,  would  he  like  this  man  to  be 
rich?  No.  He  had  more  power  than  enough  over  Mar- 
guerite as  it  was,  and  wealth  might  invest  him  with  more. 
Would  he  like  this  man  to  be  Marguerite’s  guardian,  and 
yet  proved  to  stand  in  no  degree  of  relationship  towards 
her,  however  disconnected  and  distant?  No.  But  these 
were  not  considerations  to  come  between  him  and  fidelity 
to  the  dead.  Let  him  see  to  it  that  they  passed  him  with 
no  other  notice  than  the  knowledge  that  they  had  passed 
him,  and  left  him  bent  on  the  discharge  of  a solemn  duty. 
And  he  did  see  to  it,  so  soon  that  he  followed  his  compan- 
ion with  ungrudging  eyes,  while  he  still  paced  the  room; 
that  companion,  whom  he  supposed  to  be  moodily  reflecting 
on  his  own  birth,  and  not  on  another  man’s — least  of  all 
what  man’s — violent  Death. 

The  road  in  advance  from  Basle  to  Neuch§,tel  was  better 
than  had  been  represented.  The  latest  weather  had  done 
it  good.  Drivers,  both  of  horses  and  mules,  had  come  in 
that  evening  after  dark,  and  had  reported  nothing  more 
difficult  to  be  overcome  than  trials  of  patience,  harness, 
wheels,  axles,  and  whipcord.  A bargain  was  soon  struck 
for  a carriage  and  horses,  to  take  them  on  in  the  morning, 
and  to  start  before  daylight. 

Do  you  lock  your  door  at  night  when  travelling?  ” asked 
Obenreizer,  standing  warming  his  hands  by  the  wood  firt  in 
Vendale’s  chamber,  before  going  to  his  own. 

‘‘Not  I.  I sleep  too  soundly.” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


85 


I Yon  are  so  sound  a sleeper?  he  retorted,  with  an  ad- 
i liring  look.  “ What  a blessing ! ” 

■ ^‘Anything  but  a blessing  to  the  rest  of  the  house,”  re- 
oined  Vendale,  I had  to  be  knocked  up  in  the  morning 
jrom  the  outside  of  my  bedroom  door.” 

“I,  too,”  said  Obenreizer,  ^4eave  open  my  room.  But 
j*!3t  me  advise  you,  as  a Swiss,  who  knows:  always,  when 
\on  travel  in  my  country,  put  your  papers — and,  of  course, 

I our  money — under  your  pillow.  Always  the  same  place.” 
r You  are  not  complimentary  to  your  countrymen,” 
! lughed  Vendale. 

i‘  ‘^My  countrymen,”  said  Obenreizer,  with  that  light  touch 
f his  friend’s  elbows  by  way  of  Good  Night  and  benedic- 
iion,  suppose,  are  like  the  majority  of  men.  And  the 
I lajority  of  men  will  take  what  they  can  get.  Adieu!  At 
[{our  in  the  morning.” 
j ‘‘Adieu!  At  four.” 

[j  Left  to  himself,  Vendale  raked  the  logs  together, 
ilprinkled  over  them  the  white  wood-ashes  lying  on  the 
earth,  and  sat  down  to  compose  his  thoughts.  But  they 
bill  ran  high  on  their  latest  theme,  and  the  running  of  the 
iver  tended  to  agitate  rather  than  to  quiet  them.  As  he 
it  thinking,  what  little  disposition  he  had  had  to  sleep 
eparted.  He  felt  it  hopeless  to  lie  down  yet,  and  sat 
ressed  by  the  fire.  Marguerite,  Wilding,  Obenreizer,  the 
I usiness  he  was  then  upon,  and  a thousand  hopes  and 
j oubts  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  occupied  his  mind 
! t once.  Everything  seemed  to  have  power  over  him,  but 
lumber.  The  departed  disposition  to  sleep  kept  far  away. 

He  had  sat  for  a long  time  thinking,  on  the  hearth,  when 
is  candle  burned  down,  and  its  light  went  out.  It  was  of 
ttle  moment;  there  was  light  enough  in  the  fire.  He 
banged  his  attitude,  and,  leaning  his  arm  on  the  chair- 
j ack,  and  his  chin  upon  that  hand,  sat  thinking  still. 

L But  he  sat  between  the  fire  and  the  bed,  and,  as  the  fire 
fickered  in  the  play  of  air  from  the  fast-flowing  river,  his 
^ilarged  shadow  fluttered  on  the  white  wall  by  the  bedside. 
|,[is  attitude  gave  it  an  air,  half  of  mourning,  and  half  of 
I ending  over  the  bed  imploring.  His  eyes  were  observant 
P it,  when  he  became  troubled  by  the  disagreeable  fancy 
pat  it  was  like  Wilding’s  shadow,  and  not  his  own. 

A slight  change  of  place  would  cause  it  to  disappear, 
i Ce  made  the  change,  and  the  apparition  of  his  disturbed 


86 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


fancy  vanished.  He  now  sat  in  the  shade  of  a little  nook 
beside  the  fire,  and  the  door  of  the  room  was  before  him. 

It  had  a long  cumbrous  iron  latch.  He  saw  the  latch 
slowly  siid  softly  rise.  The  door  opened  a very  little,  and 
came  to  again : as  though  only  the  air  had  moved  it.  But 
he  saw  that  the  latch  was  out  of  the  hasp. 

The  door  opened  again  very  slowly,  until  it  opened  wide 
enough  to  admit  some  one.  It  afterwards  remained  still 
for  a while,  as  though  cautiously  held  open  on  the  other 
side.  The  figure  of  a man  then  entered,  with  its  face 
turned  towards  the  bed,  and  stood  quiet  just  within  the 
door.  Until  it  said,  in  a low  half- whisper,  at  the  same 
time  taking  one  step  forward : Vendale ! 

^^What  now?”  he  answered,  springing  from  his  seat: 
“ who  is  it?  ” 

It  was  Obenreizer,  and  he  uttered  a cry  of  surprise  as 
Vendale  came  upon  him  from  that  unexpected  direction. 
‘^Not  in  bed?”  he  said,  catching  him  by  both  shoulders 
with  an  instinctive  tendency  to  a struggle,  ^‘Then  some- 
thing is  wrong ! ” 

What  do  you  mean?  ” said  Vendale,  releasing  himself. 

First  tell  me;  you  are  not  ill?  ” 

''111?  No.” 

" I have  had  a bad  dream  about  you.  How  is  it  that  I 
see  you  up  and  dressed?  ” i 

" My  good  fellow,  I may  as  well  ask  you  how  is  it  that  I 
see  you  up  and  undressed?  ” 

"I  have  told  you  why.  I have  had  a bad  dream  about 
you.  I tried  to  rest  after  it,  but  it  was  impossible.  I could 
not  make  up  my  mind  to  stay  where  I was,  without  know- 
ing you  were  safe;  and  yet  I could  not  make  up  my  mind 
to  come  in  here.  I have  been  minutes  hesitating  at  the 
door.  It  is  so  easy  to  laugh  at  a dream  that  you  have  not 
dreamed.  Where  is  your  candle?  ” 

" Burnt  out.” 

" I have  a whole  one  in  my  room.  Shall  I fetch  it?  ” 

"Do  so.” 

His  room  was  very  near,  and  he  was  absent  for  but  a few 
seconds.  Coming  back  with  the  candle  in  his  hand,  he 
kneeled  down  on  the  hearth  and  lighted  it.  As  he  blew 
with  his  breath  a charred  billet  into  flame  for  the  purpose, 
A^endale,  looking  down  at  him,  saw  that  his  lips  were  white 
and  not  easy  of  control. 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


87 


‘‘Yes!”  said  Obenreizer,  setting  the  lighted  candle  on 
he  table,  “ it  was  a bad  dream.  Only  look  at  me ! ” 

His  feet  were  bare;  his  red-flannel  shirt  was  thrown  back 
t the  throat,  and  its  sleeves  were  rolled  above  the  elbows; 
lis  only  other  garment,  a pair  of  under  pantaloons  or 
.rawers,  reaching  to  the  ankles,  fitted  him  close  and  tight. 

L certain  lithe  and  savage  appearance  was  on  his  figure, 
nd  his  eyes  were  very  bright. 

“ If  there  had  been  a wrestle  with  a robber,  as  I dreamed,” 
aid  Obenreizer,  “you  see,  I was  stripped  for  it.”  ^ 

“And  armed,  too,”  said  Vendale,  glancing  at  his  girdle. 
“A  traveller’s  dagger,  that  I always  carry  on  the  road,” 
le  answered  carelessly,  half  drawing  it  from  its  sheath 
vith  his  left  hand,  and  putting  it  back  again.  “Do  you 
;arry  no  such  thing?  ” 

“Nothing  of  the  kind.” 

“No  pistols?  ” said  Obenreizer,  glancing  at  the  table,  and 
Torn  it  to  the  untouched  pillow. 

“Nothing  of  the  sort.” 

“ You  Englishmen  are  so  confident ! You  wish  to  sleep?  ” 
“I  have  wished  to  sleep  this  long  time,  but  I can’t  doit.” 
“I  neither,  after  the  bad  dream.  My  fire  has  gone  the 
vay  of  your  candle.  May  I come  and  sit  by  yours?  Two 
)’clock!  It  will  so  soon  be  four,  that  it  is  not  worth  the 
.Touble  to  go  to  bed  again.” 

“I  shall  not  take  the  trouble  to  go  to  bed  at  all,  now,” 
5aid  Vendale;  “sit  here  and  keep  me  company,  and  wel- 
3ome.” 

Going  back  to  his  room  to  arrange  his  dress,  Obenreizer 
soon  returned  in  a loose  cloak  and  slippers,  and  they  sat 
iown  on  opposite  sides  of  the  hearth.  In  the  interval, 
Vendale  had  replenished  the  fire  from  the  wood-basket  in 
his  room,  and  Obenreizer  had  put  upon  the  table  a flask  and 
3up  from  his. 

“ Common  cabaret  brandy,  I am  afraid,”  he  said,  pouring 
out;  “bought  upon  the  road,  and  not  like  yours  from  Crip- 
ple Corner.  But  yours  is  exhausted;  so  much  the  worse. 
A cold  night,  a cold  time  of  night,  a cold  country,  and  a 
cold  house.  This  may  be  better  than  nothing;  try  it.” 
Vendale  took  the  cup,  and  did  so. 

“ How  do  you  find  it?  ” ^ • 

“ It  has  a coarse  after-flavour,”  said  Vendale,  giving  bach 
the  cup  with  a slight  shudder,  “and  I don’t  like  it.” 


88 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


“ You  are  right,”  said  Obenreizer,  tasting,  and  smacking 
his  lips;  it  has  a coarse  after-flavour,  and  1 don’t  like  it. 
Booh ! it  burns,  though ! ” He  had  flung  what  remained  in 
the  cup,  upon  the  fire. 

Each  of  them  leaned  an  elbow  on  the  table,  reclining  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  and  sat  looking  at  the  flaring  logs. 
Obenreizer  remained  watchful  and  still;  but  Vendale,  after 
certain  nervous  twitches  and  starts,  in  one  of  which  he  rose 
to  his  feet  and  looked  wildly  about  him,  fell  into  the 
strangest  confusion  of  dreams.  He  carried  his  papers  in  a 
leather  case  or  pocket-book,  in  an  inner  breast-pocket  of 
his  buttoned  travelling  coat;  and  whatever  he  dreamed  of, 
in  the  lethargy  that  got  possession  of  him,  something  im- 
portunate in  these  papers  called  him  out  of  that  dream, 
though  he  could  not  wake  from  it.  He  was  belated  on  the 
steppes'  of  Russia  (some  shadowy  person  gave  that  name  to 
the  place)  with  Marguerite;  and  yet  the  sensation  of  a 
hand  at  his  breast,  softly  feeling  the  outline  of  the  pocket- 
book  as  he  lay  asleep  before  the  fire,  was  present  to  him. 
He  was  shipwrecked  in  an  open  boat  at  sea,  and  having  lost 
his  clothes,  had  no  other  covering  than  an  old  sail;  and  yet 
a creeping  hand,  tracing  outside  all  the  other  pockets  of  the 
dress  he  actually  wore,  for  papers,  and  finding  none  answer 
its  touch,  warned  him  to  rouse  himself.  He  was  in  the  an- 
cient vault  at  Cripple  Corner,  to  which  was  transferred  the 
very  bed  substantial  and  present  in  the  very  room  at  Basle; 
and  Wilding  (not  dead,  as  he  had  supposed,  and  yet  he  did 
not  wonder  much)  shook  him,  and  whispered,  “ Look  at  that 
man ! Don’t  you  see  he  has  risen,  and  is  turning  the  pil- 
low? Why  should  he  turn  the  pillow,  if  not  to  seek  those 
papers  that  are  in  your  breast?  Awake ! ” And  yet  he 
slept,  and  wandered  off  into  other  dreams. 

Watchful  and  still,  with  his  elbow  on  the  table  and  his 
head  upon  that  hand,  his  companion  at  length  said : “ Ven- 
dale! We  are  called.  Past  four!”  Then,  opening  his 
eyes,  he  saw,  turned  sideways  on  him,  the  filmy  face  of 
Obenreizer. 

“You  have  been  in  a heavy  sleep,”  he  said.  “The  fa- 
tigue of  constant  travelling  and  the  cold ! ” ■ 

“I  am  broad  awake  now,”  cried  Vendale,  springing  up, 
but  with  an  unsteady  footing.  “Haven’t  you  slept  at 
all?” 

“ I may  have  dozed,  but  I seem  to  have  been  patiently 


ISrO  THOROUGHFARE. 


89 


looking  at  the  fire.  Whether  or  no,  we  must  wash,  and 
breakfast,  and  turn  out.  Past  four,  Vendale;  past  four!’’ 
It  was  said  in  a tone  to  rouse  him,  for  already  he  was 
half  asleep  again.  In  his  preparation  for  the  day,  too,  and 
at  his  breakfast,  he  was  often  virtually  asleep  while  in  me- 
chanical action.  It  was  not  until  the  cold  dark  day  was 
closing  in,  that  he  had  any  distincter  impressions  of  the 
ride  than  jingling  bells,  bitter  weather,  slipping  horses, 
frowning  hill-sides,  bleak  woods,  and  a stoppage  at  some 
wayside  house  of  entertainment,  where  they  had  passed 
through  a cowhouse  to  reach  the  travellers’  room  above. 
He  had  been  conscious  of  little  more,  except  of  Obenreizer 
sitting  thoughtful  at  his  side  all  day,  and  eyeing  him  much. 

But  when  he  shook  off  his  stupor,  Obenreizer  was  not  at 
his  side.  The  carriage  was  stopping  to  bait  at  another 
wayside  house;  and  a line  of  long  narrow  carts,  laden  with 
casks  of  wine,  and  drawn  by  horses  with  a quantity  of  blue 
collar  and  head-gear,  were  baiting  too.  These  came  from 
the  direction  in  which  the  travellers  were  going,  and  Oben- 
reizer (not  thoughtful  now,  but  cheerful  and  alert)  was 
talking  with  the  foremost  driver.  As  Vendale  stretched 
his  limbs,  circulated  his  blood,  and  cleared  off  the  lees  of 
his  lethargy,  with  a sharp  run  to  and  fro  in  the  bracing  air, 
the  line  of  carts  moved  on : the  drivers  all  saluting  Oben- 
reizer as  they  passed  him. 

‘‘Who  are  those?”  asked  Vendale. 

“They  are  our  carriers — Defresnier  and  Company’s,” 
replied  Obenreizer.  “ Those  are  our  casks  of  wine.”  He 
was  singing  to  himself,  and  lighting  a cigar. 

“I  have  been  drearily  dull  company  to-day,”  said  Ven- 
dale, “I  don’t  know  what  has  been  the  matter  with  me.” 

“ You  had  no  sleep  last  night;  and  a kind  of  brain-con- 
gestion frequently  comes,  at  first,  of  such  cold,”  said  Oben- 
reizer. “I  have  seen  it  often.  After  all,  we  shall  have 
our  journey  for  nothing,  it  seems.” 

“ How  for  nothing?  ” 

“The  House  is  at  Milan.  You  know,  we  are  a Wine 
House  at  Neuchatel,  and  a Silk  House  at  Milan?  Well, 
Silk  happening  to  press  of  a sudden,  more  than  Wine,  De- 
fresnier was  summoned  to  Milan.  Holland,  the  other  part- 
ner, has  been  taken  ill  since  his  departure,  and  the  doctors 
will  allow  him  to  see  no  one.  A letter  awaits  you  at  Heu- 
chatel  to  tell  you  so.  I have  it  from  our  chief  carrier 


90 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


whom  you  saw  me  talking  with.  He  was  surprised  to  see 
mej  and  said  he  had  that  word  for  you  if  he  met  you. 
What  do  you  do?  Go  back?  ” 

“Go  on,”  said  Vendale. 

“ On?  ” 

“On?  Yes.  Across  the  Alps,  and  down  to  Milan.” 

Obenreizer  stopped  in  his  smoking  to  look  at  Vendale, 
and  then  smoked  heavily,  looked  up  the  road,  looked  down 
the  road,  looked  down  at  the  stones  in  the  road  at  his  feet. 

“I  have  a very  serious  matter  in  charge,”  said  Vendale; 
“more  of  these  missing  forms  may  be  turned  to  as  bad  ac- 
count, or  worse;  I am  urged  to  lose  no  time  in  helping  the 
House  to  take  the  thief;  and  nothing  shall  turn  me  back  ” 

“ No?  ” cried  Obenreizer,  taking  out  his  cigar  to  smile, 
and  giving  his  hand  to  his  fellow-traveller.  “Then  noth- 
ing shall  turn  me  back.  Ho,  driver!  Despatch.  Quick 
there ! Let  us  push  on ! ” 

They  travelled  through  the  night.  There  had  been  snow, 
and  there  was  a partial  thaw,  and  they  mostly  travelled  at 
a foot-pace,  and  always  with  many  stoppages  to  breathe  the 
splashed  and  floundering  horses.  After  an  hour’s  broad 
daylight,  they  drew  rein  at  the  inn-door  at  Neuchatel,  hav- 
ing been  some  eight-and-twenty  hours  in  conquering  some 
eighty  English  miles. 

When  they  had  hurriedly  refreshed  and  changed,  they 
went  together  to  the  house  of  business  of  Defresnier  and 
Conipany.  There  they  found  the  letter  which  the  wine- 
carrier  had  described,  enclosing  the  tests  and  comparisons 
of  hand- writing  essential  to  the  discovery  of  the  Forger. 
Vendale’s  determination  to  press  forward,  without  resting, 
being  already  taken,  the  only  question  to  delay  them  was 
by  what  Pass  could  they  cross  the  Alps?  Respecting  the 
state  of  the  two  Passes  of  the  St.  Gotthard  and  the  Sim- 
plon, the  guides  and  mule-drivers  differed  greatly;  and 
both  Passes  were  still  far  enough  off,  to  prevent  the  travel- 
lers from  having  the  benefit  of  any  recent  experience  of 
either.  Besides  which,  they  well  knew  that  a fall  of  snow 
might  altogether  change  the  described  conditions  in  a single 
hour,  even  if  they  were  correctly  stated.  But,  on  the 
whole,  the  Simplon  appearing  to  be  the  hopefuller  route, 
Vendale  decided  to  take  it.  Obenreizer  bore  little  or  no 
part  in  the  discussion,  and  scarcely  spoke. 

To  Geneva,  to  Lausanne,  along  the  level  margin  of  the 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


91 


lake  to  Vevay,  so  into  the  winding  valley  between  the  spurs 
of  the  mountains,  and  into  the  valley  of  the  Rhone.  The 
sound  of  the  carriage-wheels,  as  they  rattled  on,  through 
the  day,  through  the  night,  became  as  the  wheels  of  a great 
clock,  recording  the  hours.  No  change  of  weather  varied 
the  journey,  after  it  had  hardened  into  a sullen  frost.  In 
a sombre-yellow  sky,  they  saw  the  Alpine  ranges;  and  they 
saw  enough  of  snow  on  nearer  and  much  lower  hill- tops 
and  hill-sides,  to  sully,  by  contrast,  the  purity  of  lake,  tor- 
rent, and  waterfall,  and  make  the  villages  look  discoloured 
and  dirty.  But  no  snow  fell,  nor  was  there  any  snow-drift 
on  the  road.  The  stalking  along  the  valley  of  more  or  less 
of  white  mist,  changing  on  their  hair  and  dress  into  icicles, 
was  the  only  variety  between  them  and  the  gloomy  sky. 
And  still  by  day,  and  still  by  night,  the  wheels.  And  still 
they  rolled,  in  the  hearing  of  one  of  them,  to  the  burden, 
altered  from  the  burden  of  the  Rhine : The  time  is  gone 

for  robbing  him  alive,  and  I must  murder  him.’^ 

They  came,  at  length,  to  the  poor  little  town  of  Brieg, 
at  the  foot  of  the  Simplon.  They  came  there  after  dark, 
but  yet  could  see  how  dwarfed  men’s  work  and  men  be- 
came with  the  immense  mountains  towering  over  them. 
Here  they  must  lie  for  the  night;  and  here  was  warmth  of 
fire,  and  lamp,  and  dinner,  and  wine,  and  after-conference 
resounding,  with  guides  and  drivers.  No  human  creature 
had  come  across  the  Pass  for  four  days.  The  snow  above 
the  snow-line  was  too  soft  for  wheeled  carriage,  and  not 
hard  enough  for  sledge.  There  was  snow  in  the  sky. 
There  had  been  snow  in  the  sky  for  days  past,  and  the  mar- 
vel was  that  it  had  not  fallen,  and  the  certainty  was  that  it 
must  fall.  No  vehicle  could  cross.  The  journey  might  be 
tried  on  mules,  or  it  might  be  tried  on  foot;  but  the  best 
guides  must  be  paid  danger-price  in  either  case,  and  that, 
too,  whether  they  succeeded  in  taking  the  two  travellers 
across,  or  turned  for  safety  and  brought  them  back. 

In  this  discussion,  Obenreizer  bore  no  part  whatever. 
He  sat  silently  smoking  by  the  fire  until  the  room  was 
cleared  and  Vendale  referred  to  him. 

^‘Bah!  I am  weary  of  these  poor  devils  and  their  trade,” 
he  said,  in  reply.  ^‘Always  the  same  story.  It  is  the 
story  of  their  trade  to-day,  as  it  was  the  story  of  their 
trade  when  I was  a ragged  boy.  What  do  you  and  I want? 
We  want  a knapsack  each,  and  a mountain-staff  each.  We 


92 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


want  no  guide;  we  should  guide  him;  he  would  not  guide 
us.  We  leave  our  portmanteaus  here,  and  we  cross  togeth- 
er. W e have  been  on  the  mountains  together  before  now, 

and  I am  mountain-born,  and  I know  this  Pass — Pass ! 

rather  High  Road! — ^by  heart.  We  will  leave  these  poor 
devils,  in  pity,  to  trade  with  others;  but  they  must  not  de- 
lay us  to  make  a pretence  of  earning  money.  Which  is  all 
they  mean.’^ 

Vendale,  glad  to  be  quit  of  the  dispute,  and  to  cut  the 
knot:  active,  adventurous,  bent  on  getting  forward,  and 
therefore  very  susceptible  to  the  last  hint:  readily  as- 
sented. Within  two  hours,  they  had  purchased  what  they 
wanted  for  the  expedition,  had  packed  their  knapsacks, 
and  lay  down  to  sleep. 

At  break  of  day,  they  found  half  the  town  collected  in 
the  narrow  street  to  see  them  depart.  The  people  talked 
together  in  groups;  the  guides  and  drivers  whispered  apart, 
and  looked  up  at  the  sky;  no  one  wished  them  a good  jour- 
ney. 

As  they  began  the  ascent,  a gleam  of  sun  shone  from  the 
otherwise  unaltered  sky,  and  for  a moment  turned  the  tin 
spires  of  the  town  to  silver 

A good  omen!  said  Vendale  (though  it  died  out  while 
he  spoke).  Perhaps  our  example  will  open  the  Pass  on 
this  sided’ 

^^No;  we  shall  not  be  followed,”  returned  Obenreizer, 
looking  up  at  the  sky  and  back  at  the  valley.  We  shall  be 
alone  up  yonder.” 


ON  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

The  road  was  fair  enough  for  stout  walkers,  and  the  air 
grew  lighter  and  easier  to  breathe  as  the  two  ascended. 
But  the  settled  gloom  remained  as  it  had  remained  for  days 
back.  Nature  seemed  to  have  come  to  a pause.  The  sense 
of  hearing,  no  less  than  the  sense  of  sight,  was  troubled  by 
having  to  wait  so  long  for  the  change,  whatever  it  might  be, 
that  impended  The  silence  was  as  palpable  and  heavy  as 
the  lowering  clouds — or  rather  cloud,  for  there  seemed  to 
be  but  one  in  all  the  sky,  and  that  one  covering  the  whole 
of  it. 

Although  the  light  was  thus  dismally  shrouded,  the  pros- 
pect was  not  obscured.  Down  in  the  valley  of  the  Rhone 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


93 


3hind  them,  the  stream  could  be  traced  through  all  its 
any  windings,  oppressively  sombre  and  solemn  in  its  one 
•aden  hue,  a colourless  waste.  Far  and  high  above  them, 
iaciers  and  suspended  avalanches  overhung  the  spots  where 
ley  must  pass  by-and-bye;  deep  and  dark  below  them  on 
■leir  right,  were  awful  precipice  and  roaring  torrent;  tre- 
kendous  mountains  arose  in  every  vista.  The  gigantic 
mdscape,  uncheered  by  a touch  of  changing  light  or  a soli- 
iry  ray  of  sun,  was  yet  terribly  distinct  in  its  ferocity. 

' he  hearts  of  two  lonely  men  might  shrink  a little,  if  they  - 
ad  to  win  their  way  for  miles  and  hours  among  a legion  of 
‘lent  and  motionless  men— mere  men  like  themselves— all 
)oking  at  them  with  fixed  and  frowning  front.  But  how 
luch  more,  when  the  legion  is  of  Nature’s  mightiest  woiks, 
nd  the  frown  may  turn  to  fury  in  an  instant! 
i As  they  ascended,  the  road  became  gradually  more  rugged 
nd  difficult.  But  the  spirits  of  Vendale  rose  as  they 
lounted  higher,  leaving  so  much  more  of  the  road  behind 
ifiem  conquered.  Obenreizer  spoke  little,  and  held  on  with 
determined  purpose.  Both,  in  respect  of  agility  and  en- 
urance,  were  well  qualified  for  the  expedition.  Whatever 
he  born  mountaineer  read  in  the  weather- tokens,  that  was 
[legible  to  the  other,  he  kept  to  himself. 

“ Shall  we  get  across  to-day?  ” asked  Vendale. 

‘^No,”  replied  the  other.  ‘‘You  see  how  much  deeper 
he  snow  lies  here  than  it  lay  half  a league  lower.  The 
ligher  we  mount,  the  deeper  the  snow  will  lie.  Walking 
s half  wading  even  now.  And  the  days  are  so  short  1 If 
ve  get  as  high  as  the  fifth  Eefuge,  and  lie  to-night  at  the 
Tospice,  we  shall  do  well.”  • -u  » 

! “ Is  there  no  danger  of  the  weather  rising  in  the  night, 
'isked  Vendale,  anxiously,  “and  snowing  us  up?  ” 

“There  is  danger  enough  about  us,”  said  Obenreizer, 
with  a cautious  glance  onward  and  upward,  “to  render  si- 
lence our  best  policy.  You  have  heard  of  the  Bridge  of  the 
>j|-anther?  ” 

. “ I have  crossed  it  once.” 

“ In  the  summer?  ” 

“Yes;  in  the  travelling  season.” 

“Yes;  but  it  is  another  thing  at  this  season;”  with  a 
.sneer,  as  though  he  were  out  of  temper.  “This  is  not  a 
time  of  year,  or  a state  of  things,  on  an  Alpine  Pass,  that 
you  gentlemen  holiday-travellers  know  much  about.” 


94 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


“You  are  my  Guide,”  said  Vendale,  good-humouredlv. 
“ I trust  to  you.  ” 

“I  am  your  Guide,”  said  Obenreizer,  “and  I will  guide 
you  to  your  journey’s  end.  There  is  the  Bridge  before 
us.” 

They  had  made  a turn  into  a desolate  and  dismal  ravine, 
where  the  snow  lay  deep  below  them,  deep  above  them, 
deep  on  every  side  While  speaking,  Obenreizer  stood 
pointing  at  the  Bridge,  and  observing  Vendale’s  face  with 
•a  very  singular  expression  on  his  own. 

“ If  I,  as  Guide,  had  sent  you  over  there,  in  advance,  and 
encouraged  you  to  give  a shout  or  two,  you  might  have 
brought  down  upon  yourself  tons  and  tons  and  tons  of 
snow,  that  would  not  only  have  struck  you  dead,  but  buried 
you  deep,  at  a blow.” 

“No  doubt,”  said  Vendale. 

“No  doubt.  But  that  is  not  what  I have  to  do,  as 
Guide.  So  pass  silently.  Or,  going  as  we  go,  our  indis- 
cretion might  else  crush  and  bury  me  Let  us  go  on ! ” 

There  was  a great  accumulation  of  snow  on  the  Bridge* 
and  such  enormous  accumulations  of  snow  overhung  them 
frona  projecting  masses  of  rock,  that  they  might  have  been 
making  their  way  through  a stormy  sky  of  white  clouds. 
Using  his  staff  skilfully,  sounding  as  he  went,  and  looking 
upward,  with  bent  shoulders,  as  it  were  to  resist  the  mere 
idea  of  a fall  from  above,  Obenreizer  softly  led  Vendale 
closely  followed.  They  were  yet  in  the  midst  of  their  dan- 
gerous way,  when  there  came  a mighty  rush,  followed  by  a 
sound  as  of  thunder.  Obenreizer  clapped  his  hand  on 
Vendale’s  mouth  and  pointed  to  the  track  behind  them. 
Its  aspect  had  been  wholly  changed  in  a moment  An  ava- 
lanche had  swept  over  it,  and  plunged  into  the  torrent  at 
the  bottom  of  the  gulf  below. 

Their  appearance  at  the  solitary  Inn  not  far  beyond  this 
terrible  Bridge,  elicited  many  expressions  of  astonishment 
from  the  people  shut  up  in  the  house.  “We  stay  but  to 
rest,”  said  Obenreizer,  shaking  the  snow  from  his  dress  at 
the  fire.  “ This  gentleman  has  very  pressing  occasion  to 
get  across; — tell  them,  Vendale.” 

“Assuredly,  I have  very  pressing  occasion.  I must 
cross.” 

“ You  hear,  all  of  you.  My  friend  has  very  pressing  oc- 
casion to  get  across,  and  we  want  no  advice  and  no  help, 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


96 


! am  as  good  a guide,  my  fellow-countrymen,  as  any  of 
7on.  Now,  give  us  to  eat  and  drink.” 

, In  exactly  the  same  way,  and  in  nearly  the  same  words, 
vhen  it  was  coming  on  dark  and  they  had  struggled  through 
>he  greatly  increased  difficulties  of  the  road,  and  had  at 
< ast  reached  their  destination  for  the  night,  Obenreizer  said 
,^o  the  astonished  people  of  the  Hospice,  gathering  about 
iffiem  at  the  fire,  while  they  were  yet  in  the  act  of  getting 
heir  wet  shoes  off,  and  shaking  the  snow  from  their 
dothes : 

' It  is  well  to  understand  one  another,  friends  all.  This 
i^entleman ” 

— ^^Has,”  said  Vendale,  readily  taking  him  up  with  a 
miile,  very  pressing  occasion  to  get  across.  Must  cross.” 
You  hear? — has  very  pressing  occasion  to  get  across, 
imust  cross.  We  want  no  advice  and  no  help.  I am  moun- 
I pain-born,  and  act  as  Guide.  Do  not  worry  us  by  talking 
ibout  it,  but  let  us  have  supper,  and  wine,  and  bed.” 
j All  through  the  intense  cold  of  the  night,  the  same  aw- 
ful stillness.  Again  at  sunrise,  no  sunny  tinge  to  gild  or 
redden  the  snow.  The  same  interminable  waste  of  deathly 
white;  the  same  immovable  air;  the  same  monotonous 
gloom  in  the  sky. 

''  Travellers ! ” a friendly  voice  called  to  them  from  the 
door,  after  they  were  afoot,  knapsack  on  back  and  staff  in 
hand,  as  yesterday:  recollect!  There  are  five  places  of 

shelter,  near  together,  on  the  dangerous  road  before  you; 
and  there  is  the  wooden  cross,  and  there  is  the  next  Hos- 
pice. Do  not  stray  from  the  track.  If  the  Tourmente 
comes  on,  take  shelter  instantly!  ” 

, The  trade  of  these  poor  devils ! ” said  Obenreizer  to  his 
friend,  with  a contemptuous  backward  wave  of  his  hand 
towards  the  voice.  ‘^How  they  stick  to  their  trade!  You 
Englishmen  say  we  Swiss  are  mercenary.  Truly,  it  does 
■ look  like  it.” 

^ They  had  divided  between  the  two  knapsacks,  such  re- 
freshments as  they  had  been  able  to  obtain  that  morning, 

' and  as  they  deemed  it  prudent  to  take.  Obenreizer  carried 
the  wine  as  his  share  of  the  burden;  Vendale,  the  bread 
and  meat  and  cheese,  and  the  flask  of  brandy. 

They  had  for  some  time  laboured  upward  and  onward 
' through  the  snow — which  was  now  above  their  knees  in  the 
track,  and  of  unknown  depth  elsewhere — and  they  were 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 

still  labouring  upward  and  onward  through  the  most  fright 
tul  part  of  that  tremendous  desolation,  when  snow  began  tc 
tall.  At  first,  but  a few  fiakes  descended  slowly  and  stead-' 
^ j ^ little  while  the  fall  grew  much  denser,  and 

suddenly  it  began  without  apparent  cause  to  whirl  itself 
into  spiral  shapes.  Instantly  ensuing  upon  this  last 
change,  an  icy  blast  came  roaring  at  them,  and  every  sound 
and  force  imprisoned  until  now  was  let  loose. 

One  of  the  dismal  galUries  through  which  the  road  is  ear- 
ned at  that  perilous  point,  a cave  eked  out  by  arches  of 
great  strength,  was  near  at  hand.  They  struggled  into  it 
and  the  storm  raged  wildly.  The  noise  of  the  wind,  the| 
noise  of  the  water,  the  thundering  down  of  displaced  masses 
of  rock  and  snow,  the  awful  voices  with  which  not  only 
that  gorge  but  every  gorge  in  the  whole  monstrous  range 
seemed  to  be  suddenly  endowed,  the  darkness  as  of  night 
the  violent  revolving  of  the  snow  which  beat  and  broke  it 
into  spray  and  blinded  them,  the  madness  of  everything 
around  insatiate  for  destruction,  the  rapid  substitution  of 
furious  violence  for  unnatural  calm,  and  hosts  of  appalling 
sounds  for  silence : these  were  things,  on  the  edge  of  a deep 
abyss,  to  chill  the  blood,  though  the  fierce  wind,  made  ac- 
tually solid  by  ice  and  snow,  had  failed  to  chill  it. 

Obenreizer,  walking  to  and  fro  in  the  gallery  without 
ceasing,  signed  to  Vendale  to  help  him  unbuckle  his  knap- 
sack. They  could  see  each  other,  but  could  not  have  heard 
each  other  speak.  Vendale  complying,  Obenreizer  pro- 
duced  his  bottle  of  wine,  and  poured  some  out,  motioning 
Vendale  to  take  that  for  warmth’s  sake,  and  not  brandy. 
Vendale  again  complying,  Obenreizer  seemed  to  drink  after 
him,  and  the  two  walked  backwards  and  forwards  side  by 
side;  both  well  knowing  that  to  rest  or  sleep  would  be  to  die. 

The  snow  came  driving  heavily  into  the  gallery  by  the 
upper  end  at  which  they  would  pass  out  of  it,  if  they  ever 
passed  out;  for  greater  dangers  lay.  on  the  road  behind 
them  than  before.  The  snow  soon  began  to  choke  the  arch. 
An  hour  more,  and  it  lay  so  high  as  to  block  out  half  of 
the  returning  daylight.  But  it  froze  hard  now,  as  it  fell, 
and  could  be  clambered  through  or  over.  The  violence  of 
the  mountain  storm  was  gradually  yielding  to  a steady 
snowfall.  The  wind  still  raged  at  intervals,  but  not  in- 
cessantly; and  when  it  paused,  the  snow  fell  in  heavy 
flakes,  ■' 


THEY  WERE  STRUGGLING  DESPERATELY  IN  THE  SNOW. 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


97 


They  might  have  been  two  hours  in  their  frightful  prison, 
^hen  Obenreizer,  now  crunching  into  the  mound,  now  creep* 
ig  over  it  with  his  head  bowed  down  and  his  body  touch- 
ig  the  top  of  the  arch,  made  his  way  out.  Vendale  fol- 
)wed  close  upon  him,  but  followed  without  clear  motive  or 
alculation.  For  the  lethargy  of  Basle  was  creeping  over 
im  again,  and  mastering  his  senses. 

How  far  he  had  followed  out  of  the  gallery,  or  with  what 
bstacles  he  had  since  contended,  he  knew  not.  He  be- 
ame  roused  to  the  knowledge  that  Obenreizer  had  set  upon 
im,  and  that  they  were  struggling  desperately  in  the  snow, 
le  became  roused  to  the  remembrance  of  what  his  assailant 
arried  in  a girdle.  He  felt  for  it,  drew  it,  struck  at  him, 
truggled  again,  struck  at  him  again,  cast  him  off,  and  stood 
ace  to  face  with  him. 

'‘I  promised  to  guide  you  to  your  journey’s  end,”  said 
)benreizer,  and  I have  kept  my  promise.  The  journey  of 
our  life  ends  here.  Nothing  can  prolong  it.  You  are 
leeping  as  you  stand.” 

''  You  are  a villain.  What  have  you  done  to  me?  ” 

''  You  are  a fool.  I have  drugged  you  You  are  doubly 
. fool,  for  I drugged  you  once  before  upon  the  journey,  to 
ry  you.  You  are  trebly  a fool,  for  I am  the  thief  and 
orger,  and  in  a few  moments  I shall  take  those  proofs 
.gainst  the  thief  and  forger  from  your  insensible  body.” 

The  entrapped  man  tried  to  throw  off  the  lethargy,  but 
ts  fatal  hold  upon  him  was  so  sure  that,  even  while  he 
leard  those  words,  he  stupidly  wondered  which  of  them 
lad  been  wounded,  and  whose  blood  it  was  that  he  saw 
iprinkled  on  the  snow. 

'‘What  have  I done  to  you,”  he  asked,  heavily  and  thick- 
y,  " that  you  should  be— so  base— a murderer?  ” 

"Done  to  me?  You  would  have  destroyed  me,  but  that 
^ou  have  come  to  your  journey’s  end.  Your  cursed  activ- 
ty  interposed  between  me,  and  the  time  I had  counted  on 
n which  I might  have  replaced  the  money.  Done  to  me? 
Yon  have  come  in  my  way — not  once,  not  twice,  but  again 
ind  again  and  again.  Did  I try  to  shake  you  off  in  the 
Deginning,  or  no?  You  were  not  to  be  shaken  off.  There- 
fore you  die  here.” 

Vendale  tried  to  think  coherently,  tried  to  speak  cohe- 
rently, tried  to  pick  up  the  iron-shod  staff  he  had  let  fall; 
failing  to  touch  it,  tried  to  stagger  on  without  its  aid.  All 

7 


98 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


in  vain,  all  in  vain!  He  stumbled,  and  fell  heavily  for^ 
■ward  on  the  brink  of  the  deep  chasm. 

Stupefied,  dozing,  unable  to  stand'  upon  his  feet,  a veil 
before  his  eyes,  his  sense  of  hearing  deadened,  he  made 
such  a vigorous  rally  that,  supporting  himself  on  his  hands 
he  saw  his  enemy  standing  calmly  over  him,  and  heard  him’ 
speak. 

1 murderer,”  said  Obenreizer,  with  a grim 

laugh.  The  name  matters  very  little.  But  at  least  I 
have  set  my  life  against  yours,  for  I am  surrounded  by 
dangers,  and  may  never  make  my  way  out  of  this  place. 
Ihe  Tourmente  is  rising  again.  The  snow  is  now  on  the 
bave  the  papers  now.  Every  moment  has 

my  life  in  it.” 

“ Stop!  ” cried  Vendale,  in  a terrible  voice,  staggering  up 
■vvith  a last  flash  of  fire  breaking  out  of  him,  and  clutching 
the  thievish  hands  at  his  breast,  in  both  of  his.  “ Stop ' 
Stand  away  from  me ! God  bless  my  Marguerite ! Hap- 
pily she  will  never  know  how  I died.  Stand  off  from  me 
and  let  me  look  at  your  murderous  face.  Let  it  remind 
me — of  something — left  to  say.” 

The  sight  of  him  fighting  so  hard  for  his  senses,  and  the 
doubt  whether  he  might  not  for  the  instant  be  possessed  by 
of  a dozen  men,  kept  his  opponent  still. 
Wildly  glaring  at  him,  Vendale  faltered  out  the  broken 
words : 


“It  shall  not  be — the  trust — of  the  dead — betrayed 
by  me  reputed  parents — misinherited  fortune — see  to 
it ! 

As  his  head  dropped  on  his  breast,  and  he  stumbled  on 
tne  brink  of  the  chasm  as  before,  the  thievish  hands  went 
once  more,  quick  and  busy,  to  his  breast.  He  made  a con- 
vulsive attempt  to  cry  “No!”  desperately  rolled  himself  ‘ 
over  into  the  gulf;  and  sank  away  from  his  enemy’s  touch 
like  a phantom  in  a dreadful  dream.  ^ 


The  mountain  storm  raged  again,  and  passed  again. 
The  awful  mountain-voices  died  away,  the  moon  rose,  and 
the  soft  and  silent  snow  fell. 

Two  men  and  two  large  dogs  came  out  at  the  door  of  the 
Hospice.  The  men  looked  carefully  around  them,  and  up 
at  the  sky.  The  dogs  rolled  in  the  snow,  and  took  it  into 
their  mouths,  and  cast  it  up  with  their  paws. 


KO  THOROUGHFARE. 


99 


One  of  the  men  said  to  the  other : We  may  venture 

now.  We  may  find  them  in  one  of  the  five  Kefuges  ” 
i,  Each  fastened  on  his  back,  a basket;  each  took  in  his  hand, 
I a strong  spiked  pole;  each  girded  under  his  arms,  a looped 
l^end  of  a stout  rope,  so  that  they  were  tied  together. 

Suddenly  the  dogs  desisted  from  their  gambols  in  the 
f^snow,  stood  looking  down  the  ascent,  put  their  noses  up, 
||  put  their  noses  down,  became  greatly  excited,  and  broke 
^ into  a deep  loud  bay  together. 

I The  two  men  looked  in  the  faces  of  the  two  dogs.  The 
^two  dogs  looked,  with  at  least  equal  intelligence,  in  the 
faces  of  the  two  men. 

1 Au  secours,  then ! Help ! To  the  rescue ! cried  the 
^ two  men.  The  two  dogs,  with  a glad,  deep,  generous  bark, 
bounded  away. 

Two  more  mad  ones ! said  the  men,  stricken  motion- 
I less,  and  looking  away  into  the  moonlight.  “ Is  it  possible 
in  such  weather!  And  one  of  them  a woman!  ’’ 
i Each  of  the  dogs  had  the  corner  of  a woman’s  dress  in 
I its  mouth  and  drew  her  along.  She  fondled  their  heads  as 
she  came  up,  and  she  came  up  through  the  snow  with  an 
accustomed  tread.  Not  so  the  large  man  with  her,  who 
was  spent  and  winded. 

Dear  guides,  dear  friends  of  travellers ! I am  of  your 
, country.  We  seek  two  gentlemen  crossing  the  Pass,  who 
should  have  reached  the  Hospice  this  evening.” 

“They  have  reached  it,  ma’amselle.” 

“ Thank  Heaven ! 0 thank  Heaven ! ” 

“But,  unhappily,  they  have  gone  on  again.  . We  are  set- 
; ting  forth  to  seek  them  even  now.  We  had  to  wait  until 
the  Tourmente  passed.  It  has  been  fearful  up  here.” 
“Dear  guides,  dear  friends  of  travellers!  Let  me  go 
with  you.  Let  me  go  with  you,  for  the  love  of  God  ! One 
of  those  gentlemen  is  to  be  my  husband.  I love  him,  oh, 
so  dearly.  O so  dearly!  You  see  I am  not  faint,  you  see 
I am  not  tired.  I am  born  a peasant  girl.  I will  show 
you  that  I know  well  how  to  fasten  myself  to  your  ropes. 

I will  do  it  with  my  own  hands.  I will  swear  to  be  brave 
and  good.  But  let  me  go  with  you,  let  me  go  with  you! 
If  any  mischance  should  have  befallen  him,  my  love  would 
find  him,  when  nothing  else  could.  On  my  knees,  dear 
friends  of  travellers ! By  the  love  your  dear  mothers  had 
for  your  fathers ! ” 


100 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


The  good  rough  fellows  were  moved.  “After  all,”  they 
murmured  to  one  another,  “ she  speaks  but  the  truth  She 
knows  the  ways  of  the  mountains.  See  how  marvellously 
she  has  come  here ! But  as  to  Monsieur  there,  ma’am- 
selle?  ” 

“Dear  Mr.  Joey,”  said  Marguerite,  addressing  him  in 
his  own  tongue,  “ you  will  remain  at  the  house,  and  wait 
for  me;  will  you  not? 

I know’d  which  o’  you  two  recommended  it,” 
growled  Joey  Ladle,  eyeing  the  two  men  with  great  indig- 
nation, ‘^I’d  fight  you  for  sixpence,  and  give  you  half-a- 
crown  towards  your  expenses.  No,  Miss.  I’ll  stick  by 
you  as  long  as  there’s  any  sticking  left  in  me,  and  I’ll  die 
for  you  when  I can’t  do  better.” 

The  state  of  the  moon  rendering  it  highly  important  that 
no  time  should  be  lost,  and  the  dogs  showing  signs  of  great 
uneasiness,  the  two  men  quickly  took  their  resolution.  The 
rope  that  yoked  them  together  was  exchanged  for  a longer 
one;  the  party  were  secured.  Marguerite  second,  and  the 
Cellarman  last;  and  they  set  out  for  the  Eefuges.  The 
actual  distance  of  those  places  was  nothing;  the  whole  five 
and  the  next  Hospice  to  boot,  being  within  two  miles;  but 
the  ghastly  way  was  whitened  out  and  sheeted  over. 

They  made  no  miss  in  reaching  the  Gallery  where  the 
two  had  taken  shelter.  The  second  storm  of  wind  and 
snow  had  so  wildly  swept  over  it  since,  that  their  tracks 
were  gone.  But  the  dogs  went  to  and  fro  with  their  noses 
down,  and  were  confident.  The  party  stopping,  however, 
at  the  further  arch,  where  the  second  storm  had  been  espe- 
cially furious,  and  where  the  drift  was  deep,  the  dogs  be- 
came troubled,  and  went  about  and  about,  in  quest  of  a lost 
purpose. 

The  great  abyss  being  known  to  lie  on  the  right,  they 
wandered  too  much  to  the  left,  and  had  to  regain  the  way 
with  infinite  labour  through  a deep  field  of  snow.  The 
leader  of  the  line  had  stopped  it,  and  was  taking  note  of 
the  landmarks,  when  one  of  the  dogs  fell  to  tearing  up  the 
snow  a little  before  them.  Advancing  and  stooping  to 
look  at  it,  thinking  that  some  one  might  be  overwhelmed 
there,  they  saw  that  it  was  stained,  and  that  the  stain  was 
red. 

The  other  dog  was  now  seen  to  look  over  the  brink  of  the 
gulf,  with  his  fore  legs  straightened  out,  lest  he  should  fall 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


101 


into  it,  and  to  tremble  in  every  limb.  Then  the  dog  who 
had  found  the  stained  snow  joined  him,  and  then  they  ran 
to  and  fro,  distressed  and  whining.  Finally,  they  both 
stopped  on  the  brink  together,  and  setting  up  their  heads, 
howled  dolefully. 

There  is  some  one  lying  below,”  said  Marguerite, 
think  so,”  said  the  foremost  man.  Stand  well  in- 
ward, the  two  last,  and  let  us  look  over.” 

The  last  man  kindled  two  torches  from  his  basket,  and 
handed  them  forward.  The  leader  taking  one,  and  Mar- 
guerite the  other,  they  looked  down : now  shading  the 
torches,  now  moving  them  to  the  right  or  left,  now  raising 
them,  now  depressing  them,  as  moonlight  far  below  con- 
tended with  black  shadows.  A piercing  cry  from  Margue- 
rite broke  a long  silence. 

^^My  God!  On  a projecting  point,  where  a wall  of  ice 
stretches  forward  over  the  torrent,  I see  a human  form ! ” 

Where,  ma’amselle,  where?” 

See,  there ! On  the  shelf  of  ice  below  the  dogs ! ” 

The  leader,  with  a sickened  aspect,  drew  inward,  and 
they  were  all  silent.  But  they  were  not  all  inactive,  for 
Marguerite,  with  swift  and  skilful  fingers,  had  detached 
both  herself  and  him  from  the  rope  in  a few  seconds. 

Show  me  the  baskets.  These  two  are  the  only 
ropes?  ” 

‘^The  only  ropes  here,  ma’amselle;  but  at  the  Hos- 
pice  ” 

If  he  is  alive — I know  it  is  my  lover — he  will  be  dead 
before  you  can  return.  Dear  Guides ! Blessed  friends  of 
travellers!  Look  at  me!  Watch  my  hands.  If  they  fal- 
ter or  go  wrong,  make  me  your  prisoner  by  force.  If  they 
are  steady  and  go  right,  help  me  to  save  him ! ” 

She  girded  herself  with  a cord  under  the  breast  and  arms, 
she  formed  it  into  a kind  of  jacket,  she  drew  it  into  knots, 
she  laid  its  end  side  by  side  with  the  end  of  the  other 
cord,  she  twisted  and  twined  the  two  together,  she  knotted 
them  together,  she  set  her  foot  upon  the  knots,  she  strained 
them,  she  held  them  for  the  two  men  to  strain  at. 

She  is  inspired,”  they  said  to  one  another. 

“By  the  Almighty^s  mercy!”  she  exclaimed.  “You 
both  know  that  I am  by  far  the  lightest  here.  Give  me 
the  brandy  and  the  wine,  and  lower  me  down  to  him. 
Then  go  for  assistance  and  a stronger  rope.  You  see  that 


102 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


when  it  is  lowered  to  me — look  at  this  about  me  now — I 
can  make  it  fast  and  safe  to  his  body.  Alive  or  dead,  I 
will  bring  him  up,  or  die  with  him.  I love  him  passion- 
ately. Can  I say  more? 

They  turned  to  her  companion,  but  he  was  lying  sense- 
less on  the  snow. 

Lower  me  down  to  him,’^  she  said,  taking  two  little 
kegs  they  had  brought,  and  hanging  them  about  her,  “ or  I 
will  dash  myself  to  pieces ! I am  a peasant,  and  I know 
no  giddiness  or  fear;  and  this  is  nothing  to  me,  and  I pas- 
sionately love  him.  Lower  me  down ! ” 

^^Ma’amselle,  ma’amselle,  he  must  be  dying  or  dead.^^ 
Dying  or  dead,  my  husband’s  head  shall  lie  upon  my 
breast,  or  X will  dash  myself  to  pieces.” 

They  yielded,  overborne.  With  such  precautions  as 
their  skill  and  the  circumstances  admitted,  they  let  her  slip 
from  the  summit,  guiding  herself  down  the  precipitous  icy 
wall  with  her  hand,  and  they  lowered  down,  and  lowered 
down,  and  lowered  down,  until  the  cry  came  up : Enough ! ” 

^^Is  it  really  he,  and  is  he  dead?”  they  called  down, 
looking  over. 

The  cry  came  up : He  is  insensible;  but  his  heart  beats. 

It  beats  against  mine.” 

^^How  does  he  lie?  ” 

The  cry  came  up : Upon  a ledge  of  ice.  It  has  thawed 

beneath  him,  and  it  will  thaw  beneath  me.  Hasten  If 
we  die,  I am  content.” 

One  of  the  two  men  hurried  off  with  the  dogs  at  such 
topmost  speed  as  he  could  make;  the  other  set  up  the 
lighted  torches  in  the  snow,  and  applied  himself  to  recov- 
ering the  Englishman.  Much  snow-chafing  and  some 
brandy  got  him  on  his  legs,  but  delirious  and  quite  uncon- 
scious where  he  was. 

The  watch  remained  upon  the  brink,  and  his  cry  went 
down  continually:  Courage!  They  wilFsoon  be  here. 

How  goes  it?  ” And  the  cry  came  up : His  heart  still 

beats  against  mine.  I warm  him  in  my  arms.  I have  cast 
off  the  rope,  for  the  ice  melts  under  us,  and  the  rope  would 
separate  me  from  him;  but  I am  not  afraid.” 

The  moon  went  down  behind  the  mountain  tops,  and  all 
the  abyss  lay  in  darkness.  The  cry  went  down:  ‘^How 
goes  it?  ” The  cry  came  up:  We  are  sinking  lower,  but 

his  heart  still  beats  against  mine.” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


103 


At  length,  the  eager  barking  of  the  dogs,  and  a flare  of 
light  upon  the  snow,  proclaimed  that  help  was  coming  on. 
Twenty  or  thirty  men,  lamps,  torches,  litters,  ropes,  blank- 
ets, wood  to  kindle  a great  fire,  restoratives  and  stimulants, 
came  in  fast.  The  dogs  ran  from  one  man  to  another,  and 
from  this  thing  to  that,  and  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  abyss, 
dumbly  entreating  Speed,  speed,  speed ! 

The  cry  went  do^vn:  ‘^Thanks  to  God,  all  is  ready. 
How  goes  it?  ’’ 

The  cry  came  up:  ‘‘We  are  sinking  still,  and  we  are 
deadly  cold  His  heart  no  longer  beats  against  mine.  Let 
no  one  come  down  to  add  to  our  weight.  Lower  the  rope 
only.’^ 

The  fire  was  kindled  high,  a great  glare  of  torches  lighted 
the  sides  of  the  precipice,  lamps  were  lowered,  a strong 
rope  was  lowered.  She  could  be  seen  passing  it  round  him, 
and  making  it  secure. 

The  cry  came  up  into  a deathly  silence : “ Eaise ! Softly ! 
They  could  see  her  diminished  figure  shrink,  as  he  was 
swung  into  the  air. 

They  gave  no  shout  when  some  of  them  laid  him  on  a 
litter,  and  others  lowered  another  strong  rope.  The  cry 
again  came  up  into  a deathly  silence : “ Raise ! Softly ! 
But  when  they  caught  her  at  the  brink,  then  they  shouted, 
then  they  wept,  then  they  gave  thanks  to  Heaven,  then 
the}^  kissed  her  feet,  then  they  kissed  her  dress,  then  the 
dogs  caressed  her,  licked  her  icy  hands,  and  with  their 
honest  faces  warmed  her  frozen  bosom ! 

She  broke  from  them  all,  and  sank  over  him  on  his  litter, 
with  both  her  loving  hands  upon  the  heart  that  stood  still. 

ACT  IV* 

THE  CLOCK-LOCK. 

The  pleasant  scene  was  Neuch^tel;  the  pleasant  month 
was  April;  the  pleasant  place  was  a notary’s  office;  the 
pleasant  person  in  it  was  the  notary : a rosy,  hearty,  hand- 
some old  man,  chief  notary  of  Neuchatel,  known  far  and 
wide  in  the  canton  as  Maitre  Voigt.  Professionally  and 
personally,  the  notary  was  a popular  citizen.  His  innumer- 
able kindnesses  and  his  innumerable  oddities  had  for  years 
made  him  one  of  the  recognised  public  characters  of  the 
pleasant  Swiss  town.  His  long  brown  frock-coat  and  his 


104 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


black  skull-cap  were  among  the  institutions  of  the  place; 
and  he  carried  a snuff-box  which,  in  point  of  size,  was  pop- 
ularly believed  to  be  without  a parallel  in  Europe 

There  was  another  person  in  the  notary’s  office,  not  so 
pleasant  as  the  notary.  This  was  Obenreizer. 

An  oddly  pastoral  kind  of  office  it  was,  and  one  that 
would  never  have  answered  in  England.  It  stood  in  a neat 
back-yard,  fenced  off  from  a pretty  flower-garden.  Goats 
browsed  in  the  doorway,  and  a cow  was  within  half  a dozen 
feet  of  keeping  company  with  the  clerk.  Maitre  Voigt’s 
room  was  a bright  and  varnished  little  room,  with  panelled 
walls,  like  a toy-chamber.  According  to  the  seasons  of  the 
year,  roses,  sunflowers,  hollyhocks,  peeped  in  at  the  win- 
dows. Maitre  Voigt’s  bees  hummed  through  the  office  all 
the  summer,  in  at  this  window  and  out  at  that,  taking  it 
frequently  in  their  day’s  work,  as  if  honey  were  to  be  made 
from  Maitre  Voigt’s  sweet  disposition.  A large  musical 
box  on  the  chimney-piece  often  trilled  away  at  the  Over- 
ture to  Fra  Diavolo,  or  a Selection  from  William  Tell,  with 
a chirruping  liveliness  that  had  to  be  stopped  by  force  on 
the  entrance  of  a client,  and  irrepressibly  broke  out  again 
the  moment  his  back  was  turned. 

Courage,  courage,  my  good  fellow ! ” said  Maitre  Voigt, 
patting  Obenreizer  on  the  knee,  in  a fatherly  and  comfort- 
ing way.  You  will  begin  a new  life  to-morrow  morning 
in  my  office  here.” 

Obenreizer — dressed  in  mourning,  and  subdued  in  man- 
ner— lifted  his  hand,  with  a white  handkerchief  in  it,  to 
the  region  of  his  heart.  ^^The  gratitude  is  here,”  he  said. 
^^But  the  words  to  express  it  are  not  here.” 

^^Ta-ta-ta!  Don’t  talk  to  me  about  gratitude!”  said 
Maitre  Voigt.  I hate  to  see  a man  oppressed.  I see  you 
oppressed,  and  I hold  out  my  hand  to  you  by  instinct.  Be- 
sides, I am  not  too  old  yet,  to  remember  my  young  days. 
Your  father  sent  me  my  first  client.  (It  was  on  a question 
of  half  an  acre  of  vineyard  that  seldom  bore  any  grapes.) 
Do  I owe  nothing  to  your  father’s  son?  I owe  him  a debt 
of  friendly  obligation,  and  I pay  it  to  you.  That’s  rather 
neatly  expressed,  I think,”  added  Maitre  Voigt,  in  high 
good  humour  with  himself.  Permit  me  to  reward  my  own 
merit  with  a pinch  of  snuff ! ” 

Obenreizer  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  ground,  as  though  he 
were  not  even  worthy  to  see  the  notary  take  snuff 


NO  TITOROUGITPARE. 


105 


me  one  last  favour,  sir,”  he  said,  when  he  raised 
I his  eyes.  “Do  not  act  on  impulse  Thus  far,  you  have 
only  a general  knowledge  of  my  position.  Hear  the  case 
for  and  against  me,  in  its  details,  before  you  take  me  into 
your  office.  Let  my  claim  on  your  benevolence  be  recog- 
nised by  your  sound  reason  as  well  as  by  your  excellent 
' heart.  In  that  case,  I may  hold  up  my  head  against  the 
'bitterest  of  my  enemies,  and  build  myself  a new  reputation 
I on  the  ruins  of  the  character  I have  lost.” 

^ “As  you  will,”  said  Maitre  Voigt  “You  speak  well, 
my  son.  You  will  be  a fine  lawyer  one  of  these  days.” 

•i  “The  details  are  not  many,”  pursued  Obenreizer.  “My 
troubles  begin  with  the  accidental  death  of  my  late  travel- 
ling companion,  my  lost  dear  friend,  Mr  Vendale.” 

; “ Mr.  Vendale,”  repeated  the  notary.  “ Just  so.  I have 

heard  and  read  of  the  name,  several  times  within  these  two 
months.  The  name  of  the  unfortunate  English  gentleman 
jwho  was  killed  on  the  Simplon.  When  you  got  that  scar 
lupon  your  cheek  and  neck.” 

“ — From  my  own  knife,”  said  Obenreizer,  touching  what 
must  have  been  an  ugly  gash  at  the  time  of  its  infliction. 

“From  your  own  knife,”  assented  the  notary,  “and  in 
trying  to  save  him.  Good,  good,  good  That  was  very 
good.  Vendale.  Yes.  I have  several  times,  lately, 
thought  it  droll  that  I should  once  have  had  a client  of  that 
name.” 

“ But  the  world,  sir,”  returned  Obenreizer,  “ is  so  small ! ” 
Nevertheless  he  made  a mental  note  that  the  notary  had 
hnce  had  a client  of  that  name. 

“ As  I was  saying,  sir,  the  death  of  that  dear  travelling 
<3omrade  begins  my  troubles.  What  follows?  I save  my- 
self. I go  down  to  Milan.  I am  received  with  coldness 
by  Defresnier  and  Company.  Shortly  afterwards,  I am 
iischarged  by  Defresnier  and  Company.  Why?  They 
(give  no  reason  why.  I ask,  do  they  assail  my  honour? 
No  answer.  I ask,  what  is  the  imputation  against  me? 

• No  answer.  I ask,  where  are  their  proofs  against  me?  No 
mswer.  I ask,  what  am  I to  think?  The  reply  is,  'M. 
Jbenreizer  is  free  to  think  what  he  will.  What  M.  Oben- 
^ :eizer  thinks,  is  of  no  importance  to  Defresnier  and  Com- 
pany. ’ And  that  is  all.” 

“Perfectly.  That  is  all,”  assented  the  notary,  taking  a 
^ .arge  pinch  of  snuff. 


106 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


But  is  that  enough,  sir? 

'‘That  is  not  enough,’’  said  Maitre  Voigt,  “The  House 
of  Defresnier  are  my  fellow- townsmen — much  respected, 
much  esteemed  —but  the  House  of  Defresnier  must  not  si- 
lently destroy  a man’s  character.  You  can  rebut  assertion. 
But  how  can  you  rebut  silence?  ” 

“ Your  sense  of  justice,  my  dear  patron,”  answered  Oben- 
reizer,  “states  in  a word  the  cruelty  of  the  case.  Does  it 
stop  there?  No.  For,  what  follows  upon  that?  ” 

“True,  my  poor  boy,”  said  the  notary,  with  a comfort- 
ing nod  or  two;  “your  ward  rebels  upon  that,” 

“Kebels  is  too  soft  a word,”  retorted  Obenreizer.  “My 
ward  revolts  from  me  with  hor-ror.  My  ward  defies  me. 
My  ward  withdraws  herself  from  my  authority,  and  takes 
shelter  (Madame  Dor  with  her)  in  the  house  of  that  Eng- 
lish lawyer,  Mr.  Bintrey,  who  replies  to  your  summons  to 
her  to  submit  herself  to  my  authority,  that  she  will  not  do 
so.” 

— And  who  afterwards  writes,”  said  the  notary,  moving 
his  large  snuff-box  to  look  among  the  papers  underneath  it 
for  the  letter,  “that  he  is  coming  to  confer  with  me.” 

“ Indeed?  ” replied  Obenreizer,  rather  checked.  “Well, 
sir.  Have  I no  legal  rights?  ” 

“Assuredly,  my  poor  boy,”  returned  the  notary.  “All 
but  felons  have  their  legal  rights  ” 

“ And  who  calls  me  felon?  ” said  Obenreizer,  fiercely. 
“No  one  Be  calm  under  your  wrongs.  If  the  House 
of  Defresnier  would  call  you  felon,  indeed,  we  should  know 
how  to  deal  with  them  ” 

While  saying  these  words,  he  had  handed  Bintrey’s  very 
short  letter  to  Obenreizer,  who  now  read  it  and  gave  it  back. 

“In  saying,”  observed  Obenreizer  with  recovered  com- 
posure, “that  he  is  coming  to  confer  with  you,  this  English 
lawyer  means  that  he  is  coming  to  deny  my  authority  over 
my  ward.” 

“ You  think  so?  ” 

“I  am  sure  of  it.  I know  him.  He  is  obstinate  and 
contentious.  You  will  tell  me,  my  dear  sir,  whether  my 
authority  is  unassailable,  until  my  ward  is  of  age?  ” 
“Absolutely  unassailable.” 

“ I will  enforce  it.  I will  make  her  submit  herself  to  it. 
For,”  said  Obenreizer,  changing  his  angry  tone  to  oiu'  of 
grateful  submission,  “I  owe  it  to  you,  sir;  to  you,  who 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


107 


have  so  confidingly  taken  an  injured  man  under  your  pro- 
tection, and  into  your  employment.” 

^^Make  your  mind  easy,”  said  Maitre  Voigt.  ^^No  more 
of  this  now,  and  no  thanks ! Be  here  to-morrow  morning, 
before  the  other  clerk  comes — between  seven  and  eight. 
You  will  find  me  in  this  room;  and  I will  myself  initiate 
you  in  your  work  Go  away!  go  away!  I have  letters  to 
write.  I won’t  hear  a word  more.” 

Dismissed  with  this  generous  abruptness,  and  satisfied 
with  the  favourable  impression  he  had  left  on  the  old  man’s 
mind,  Obenreizer  was  at  leisure  to  revert  to  the  mental  note 
he  had  made  that  Maitre  Voigt  once  had  a client  whose 
name  was  Vendale. 

ought  to  know  England  well  enough  by  this  time;  ” 
so  his  meditations  ran,  as  he  sat  on  a bench  in  the  yard; 

and  it  is  not  a name  I ever  encountered  there,  except — ” 
he  looked  involuntarily  over  his  shoulder — ^^as  name. 

Is  the  world  so  small  that  I cannot  get  away  from  him, 
even  now  when  he  is  dead?  He  confessed  at  the  last  that 
I he  had  betrayed  the  trust  of  the  dead,  and  misinherited  a 
fortune.  And  I was  to  see  to  it.  And  I was  to  stand  off, 
that  my  face  might  remind  him  of  it.  Why  rmj  face,  unless 
it  concerned  me  ? I am  sure  of  his  words,  for  they  have 
been  in  my  ears  ever  since.  Can  there  be  anything  bear- 
ing on  them,  in  the  keeping  of  this  old  idiot?  Anything 
to  repair  my  fortunes,  and  blacken  his  memory?  He  dwelt 
upon  my  earliest  remembrances,  that  night  at  Basle.  Why, 
unless  he  had  a purpose  in  it?  ” 

Maitre  Voigt’s  two  largest  he-goats  were  butting  at  him 
to  butt  him  out  of  the  place,  as  if  for  that  disrespectful 
mention  of  their  master.  So  he  got  up  and  left  the  place. 
But  he  walked  alone  for  a long  time  on  the  border  of  the 
lake,  with  his  head  drooped  in  deep  thought 
Between  seven  and  eight  next  morning,  he  presented 
himself  at  the  office.  He  found  the  notary  ready  for  him, 
at  work  on  some  papers  which  had  come  in  on  the  previous 
evening.  In  a few  clear  words,  Maitre  Voigt  explained 
the  routine  of  the  office,  and  the  duties  Obenreizer  would 
be  expected  to  perform.  It  still  wanted  five  minutes  to 
eight  when  the  preliminary  instructions  were  declared  to 
be  complete. 

I will  show  you  over  the  house  and  the  offices,”  said 
Maitre  Voigt,  ‘‘but  I must  put  away  these  papers  first. 


108 


NO  THOROUGfIFARE. 


They  come  from  the  municipal  authorities  and  they  must 
be  taken  special  care  of/’ 

Obenreizer  saw  his  chance  here  of  finding  out  the  reposi- 
tory in  which  his  employer’s  private  papers  were  kept. 

Can’t  I save  you  the  trouble,  sir?”  he  asked.  “Can’t 
I put  those  documents  away  under  your  directions?  ” 

Maitre  Voigt  laughed  softly  to  himself;  closed  the  port- 
folio in  which  the  papers  had  been  sent  to  him;  handed  it 
to  Obenreizer. 

“ Suppose  you  try,”  he  said.  “ All  my  papers  of  impor- 
tance are  kept  yonder.” 

He  pointed  to  a heavy  oaken  door,  thickly  studded  with 
nails,  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room.  Approaching  the 
door,  with  the  portfolio,  Obenreizer  discovered,  to  his 
astonishment,  that  there  were  no  means  whatever  of  open- 
ing it  from  the  outside.  There  was  no  handle,  no  bolt,  no 
key,  and  (climax  of  passive  obstruction!)  no  keyhole. 

“There  is  a second  door  to  this  room?  ” said  Obenreizer, 
appealing  to  the  notary. 

“No,”  said  Maitre  Voigt.  “Guess  again.” 

“ There  is  a window?  ” 

“Nothing  of  the  sort.  The  window  has  been  bricked 
up.  The  only  way  in,  is  the  way  by  that  door.  Do  you 
give  it  up?  ” cried  Maitre  Voigt  in  high  triumph.  Listen, 
my  good  fellow,  and  tell  me  if  you  hear  nothing  inside?  ” 

Obenreizer  listened  for  a moment,  and  started  back  from 
the  door. 

“I  know!  ” he  exclaimed.  “I  heard  of  this  when  I was 
apprenticed  here  at  the  watch-maker’s  Perrin  Brothers 
have  finished  their  famous  clock-lock  at  last — and  you  have 
got  it?  ” 

“Bravo!”  said  Maitre  Voigt  “The  clock-lock  it  is! 
There,  my  son!  There  you  have  one  more  of  what  the 
good  people  of  this  town  call  ‘Daddy  Voigt’s  follies.’ 
With  all  my  heart ! Let  those  laugh  who  win  No  thief 
can  steal  my  keys.  No  burglar  can  pick  my  lock.  No 
power  on  earth,  short  of  a battering-ram  or  a barrel  of 
gunpowder,  can  move  that  door,  till  my  little  sentinel  in- 
side— my  worthy  friend  who  goes  ‘Tick,  Tick,’  as  I tell 
him — says,  ‘ Open ! ’ The  big  door  obeys  the  little  Tick, 
Tick,  and  the  little  Tick,  Tick,  obeys  me.  That ! ” cried 
Daddy  Voigt,  snapping  his  fingers,  “for  all  the  thieves  in 
Christendom ! ” 


NO  TIIonoUGITFARE. 


109 


'^May  I see  it  in  action^’’  asked  Obenreizer.  ‘^Pardon 
my  curiosity,  dear  sir!  You  know  that  I was  once  a toler- 
able worker  in  the  clock  trade. 

^‘Certainly  you  shall  see  it  in  action,’’  said  Maitre  Voigt. 
What  IS  the  time  now?  One  minute  to  eight.  Watch, 
and  in  one  minute  you  will  see  the  door  open  of  itself.” 

In  one  minute,  smoothly  and  slowly  and  silently,  as  if 
. invisible  hands  had  set  it  free,  the  heavy  door  opened  in- 
ward, and  disclosed  a dark  chamber  beyond.  On  three 
sides,  shelves  filled  the  walls,  from  floor  to  ceiling.  Ar- 
ranged on  the  shelves,  were  rows  upon  rows  of  boxes  made 
in  the  pretty  inlaid  woodwork  of  Switzerland,  and  bearing 
inscribed  on  their  fronts  (for  the  most  part  in  fanciful 
coloured  letters)  the  names  of  the  notary’s  clients. 

Maitre  Voigt  lighted  a taper,  and  led  the  way  into  the 
room. 

''  You  shall  see  the  clock,”  he  said,  proudly.  I possess 
the  greatest  curiosity  in  Europe.  It  is  only  a privileged 
few  whose  eyes  can  look  at  it.  I give  the  privilege  to 
your  good  father’s  son — you  shall  be  one  of  the  favoured 
few  who  enter  the  room  with  me.  See!  here  it  is,  on  the 
right-hand  wall  at  the  side  of  the  door.” 

An  ordinary  clock,”  exclaimed  Obenreizer.  ^‘No!  Not 
an  ordinary  clock.  It  has  only  one  hand.” 

^‘Aha!”  said  Maitre  Voigt.  ^‘Not  an  ordinary  clock, 
my  friend.  No,  no.  That  one  hand  goes  round  the  dial. 
As  I put  it,  so  it  regulates  the  hour  at  which  the  door  shall 
open.  See ! The  hand  points  to  eight.  At  eight  the  door 
opened,  as  you  saw  for  yourself.” 

“ Does  it  open  more  than  once  in  the  four-and-twenty 
hours?  ” asked  Obenreizer. 

^‘More  than  once?”  repeated  the  notary,  with  great 
scorn.  ‘^You  don’t  know  my  good  friend.  Tick,  Tick! 
He  will  open  the  door  as  often  as  I ask  him.  All  he  wants, 
is  his  directions,  and  he  gets  them  here.  Look  below  the 
dial.  Here  is  a half-circle  of  steel  let  into  the  wall,  and 
here  is  a hand  (called  the  regulator)  that  travels  round  it, 
just  as  my  hand  chooses.  Notice,  if  you  please,  that  there 
are  figures  to  guide  me  on  the  half-circle  of  steel.  Figure 

I means : Open  once  in  the  four-and-twenty  hours.  Figure 

II  means:  Open  twice;  and  so  on  to  the  end.  I set  the 
regulator  every  morning,  after  I have  read  my  letters,'  and 
when  I know  what  my  day’s  work  is  to  be.  Would  you 


110 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


like  to  see  me  set  it  now?  What  is  to-day?  Wednesday. 
Good!  This  is  the  day  of  our  rifle-club;  there  is  little 
business  to  do;  I grant  a half-holiday.  No  work  here  to- 
day, after  three  o’clock.  Let  us  first  put  away  this  port- 
folio of  municipal  papers.  There!  No  need  to  trouble 
Tick,  Tick  to  open  the  door  until  eight  to-morrow.  Good ! 
I leave  the  dial-hand  at  eight;  I put  back  the  regulator  to 
‘I.’;  I close  the  door;  and  closed  the  door  .remains,  past 
all  opening  by  anybody,  till  to-morrow  morning  at  eight.” 
Obenreizer’s  quickness  instantly  saw  the  means  by  which 
he  might  make  the  clock-lock  betray  its  master’s  confidence, 
and  place  its  master’s  papers  at  his  disposal. 

Stop,  sir ! ” he  cried,  at  the  moment  when  the  notary 
was  closing  the  door.  Don’t  I see  something  moving 
among  the  boxes — on  the  floor  there?  ” 

(Maitre  Voigt  turned  his  back  for  a moment  to  look  In 
that  moment,  Obenreizer’s  ready  hand  put  the  regulator  on 
from  the  figure  I.”  to  the  figure  II,”  Unless  the  notary 
looked  again  at  the  half-circle  of  steel,  the  door  would 
open  at  eight  that  evening,  as  well  as  at  eight  next  morn- 
ing, and  nobody  but  Obenreizer  would  know  it.) 

There  is  nothing!”  said  Maitre  Voigt.  Your  trou- 
bles have  shaken  your  nerves,  my  son.  Some  shadow 
thrown  by  my  taper;  or  some  poor  little  beetle,  who  lives 
among  the  old  lawyer’s  secrets,  running  away  from  the 
light.  Hark!  I hear  your  fellow-clerk  in  the  office,  To 
work ! to  work ! and  build  to-day  the  first  step  that  leads 
to  your  new  fortunes ! ” 

He  good  humouredly  pushed  Obenreizer  out  before  him; 
extinguished  the  taper,  with  a last  fond  glance  at  his  clock 
which  passed  harmlessly  over  the  regulator  beneath;  and 
closed  the  oaken  door, 

At  three  the  office  was  shut  up.  The  notary  and  every- 
body in  the  notary’s  employment,  with  one  exception,  went 
to  see  the  rifle-shooting.  Obenreizer  had  pleaded  that  he 
was  not  in  spirits  for  a public  festival  Nobody  knew 
what  had  become  of  him.  It  was  believed  that  he  had 
slipped  away  for  a solitary  walk 

The  house  and  offices  had  been  closed  but  a few  minutes, 
when  the  door  of  a shining  wardrobe,  in  the  notary’s  shin- 
ing room,  opened,  and  Obenreizer  stepped  out  He  wnlked 
to  a window,  unclosed  the  shutters,  satisfied  himself  tlicU 
he  could  escape  unseen  by  way  of  the  garden,  turned  back 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


Ill 


into  the  room,  and  took  his  place  in  the  notary’s  easy-chair. 
He  was  locked  up  in  the  house,  and  there  were  five  hours 
to  wait  before  eight  o’clock  came. 

He  wore  his  way  through  the  five  hours:  sometimes 
reading  the  books  and  newspapers  that  lay  on  the  table : 
sometimes  thinking : sometimes  walking  to  and  fro.  Sun- 
set came  on.  He  closed  the  window- shutters  before  he 
kindled  a light.  The  candle  lighted,  and  the  time  draw- 
ing nearer  and  nearer,  he  sat,  watch  in  hand,  with  his  eyes 
on  the  oaken  door. 

At  eight,  smoothly  and  softly  and  silently  the  door 
opened. 

One  after  another,  he  read  the  names  on  the  outer  rows 
of  boxes.  No  such  name  as  Vendale!  He  removed  the 
outer  row,  and  looked  at  the  row  behind.  These  were 
older  boxes,  and  shabbier  boxes.  The  four  first  that  he  ex- 
amined were  inscribed  with  French  and  German  names. 
The  fifth  bore  a name  which  was  almost  illegible.  He 
brought  it  out  into  the  room,  and  examined  it  closely. 
There,  covered  thickly  with  time-stains  and  dust,  was  the 
name:  Vendale.” 

The  key  hung  to  the  box  by  a string.  He  unlocked  the 
box,  took  out  four  loose  papers  that  were  in  it,  spread  them 
open  on  the  table,  and  began  to  read  them.  He  had  not 
so  occupied  a minute,  when  his  face  fell  from  its  expression 
of  eagerness  and  avidity,  to  one  of  haggard  astonishment 
and  disappointment.  But,  after  a little  consideration,  he 
copied  the  papers.  He  then  replaced  the  papers,  replaced 
the  box,  closed  the  door,  extinguished  the  candle,  and  stole 
away. 

As  his  murderous  and  thievish  footfall  passed  out  of  the 
garden,  the  steps  of  the  notary  and  some  one  accompany- 
ing him  stopped  at  the  front  door  of  the  house.  The  lamps 
were  lighted  in  the  little  street,  and  the  notary  had  his 
door-key  in  his  hand. 

“Pray  do  not  pass  my  house,  Mr.  Bintrey,”  he  said. 
“ Do  me  the  honour  to  come  in.  It  is  one  of  our  town  half- 
holidays— our  Tir — but  my  people  will  be  back  directly. 
It  is  droll  that  you  should  ask  your  way  to  the  Hotel  of 
me.  Let  us  eat  and  drink  before  you  go  there.” 

“Thank  you;  not  to-night,”  said  Bintrey.  “Shall  I 
come  to  you  at  ten  to-morrow?  ” 

“ I shall  be  enchanted,  sir,  to  take  so  early  an  opportu- 


U2 


NO  THOROUGPIFARE. 


nity  of  redressing  the  wrongs  of  my  injured  client/^  re- 
turned the  good  notary. 

Yes/^  retorted  Bintrey ; your  injured  client  is  all  very 
well — but — a word  in  your  ear.” 

He  whispered  to  the  notary,  and  walked  off  When  the 
notary’s  housekeeper  came  home,  she  found  him  standing 
at  his  door  motionless,  with  the  key  still  in  his  hand,  and 
the  door  unopened. 

obenreizer’s  victory. 

The  scene  shifts  again — to  the  foot  of  the  Simplon,  on 
the  Swiss  side. 

In  one  of  the  dreary  rooms  of  the  dreary  little  Inn  at 
Brieg,  Mr.  Bintrey  and  Maitre  Voigt  sat  together  at  a pro- 
fessional council  of  two.  Mr.  Bintrey  was  searching  in  his 
despatch-box.  Maitre  Voigt  was  looking  towards  a closed 
door,  painted  brown  to  imitate  mahogany,  and  communi- 
cating with  an  inner  room. 

Isn’t  it  time  he  was  here?”  asked  the  notary,  shifting 
his  position,  and  glancing  at  a second  door  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  painted  yellow  to  imitate  deal. 

^^He  is  here,”  answered  Bintrey,  after  listening  for  a 
moment 

The  yellow  door  was  opened  by  a waiter,  and  Obenreizer 
walked  in. 

After  greeting  Maitre  Voigt  with  a cordiality  which  ap- 
peared to  cause  the  notary  no  little  embarrassment,  Oben- 
reizer bowed  with  grave  and  distant  politeness  to  Bintrey. 
^^For  what  reason  have  I been  brought  from  Neuchatel 
to  the  foot  of  the  mountain?  ” he  inquired,  taking  the  seat 
which  the  English  lawyer  had  indicated  to  him. 

You  shall  be  quite  satisfied  on  that  head  before  our  in- 
terview is  over,”  returned  Bintrey.  ^^For  the  present,  per- 
mit me  to  suggest  proceeding  at  once  to  business.  There 
has  been  a correspondence,  Mr.  Obenreizer,  between  you 
and  your  niece.  I am  here  to  represent  your  niece.” 

^‘In  other  words,  you,  a lawyer,  are  here  to  represent 
an  infraction  of  the  law.” 

Admirably  put ! ” said  Bintrey.  If  all  the  people  I 
have  to  deal  with  were  only  like  you,  what  an  easy  profes- 
sion mine  would  be!  I am  here  to  represent  an  infraction 
of  the  law — that  is  your  point  of  view.  I am  here  to  make 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


113 


i compromise  between  you  and  your  niece — that  is  my 
)oint  of  view.’^ 

' There  must  be  two  parties  to  a compromise/’  rejoined 
Obenreizer.  I decline,  in  this  case,  to  be  one  of  them. 
Che  law  gives  me  authority  to  control  my  niece’s  actions, 
^mtil  she  comes  of  age.  She  is  not  yet  of  age;  and  I claim 
! ny  authority.” 

At  this  point  Maitre  Voigt  attempted  to  speak.  Bintrey 
lilenced  him  with  a compassionate  indulgence  of  tone  and 
manner,  as  if  he  was  silencing  a favourite  child. 

‘^No,  my  worthy  friend,  not  a word.  Don’t  excite  your- 
-iielf  unnecessarily;  leave  it  to  me.”  He  turned,  and  ad- 
Iressed  himself  again  to  Obenreizer.  I can  think  of  noth- 
ng  comparable  to  you,  Mr.  Obenreizer,  but  granite — and 
pven  that  wears  out  in  course  of  time.  In  the  interests  of 
V)eace  and  quietness — for  the  sake  of  your  own  dignity — 
•elax  a little.  If  you  will  only  delegate  your  authority  to 
another  person  whom  I know  of,  that  person  may  be  trusted 
never  to  lose  sight  of  your  niece,  night  or  day ! ” 

You  are  wasting  your  time  and  mine,”  returned  Oben- 
•eizer.  If  my  niece  is  not  rendered  up  to  my  authority 
vithin  one  week  from  this  day,  I invoke  the  law.  If  you 
•esist  the  law,  I take  her  by  force.” 

He  rose  to  his  feet  as  he  said  the  last  word.  Maitre 
i^oigt  looked  round  again  towards  the  brown  door  which 
ed  into  the  inner  room. 

‘‘Have  some  pity  on  the  poor  girl,”  pleaded  Bintrey. 
‘Eemember  how  lately  she  lost  her  lover  by  a dreadful 
death!  Will  nothing  move  you?  ” 

“ Nothing.” 

t Bintrey,  in  his  turn,  rose  to  his  feet,  and  looked  at 
daitre  Voigt.  Maitre  Voigt’s  hand,  resting  on  the  table, 
oegan  to  tremble.  Maitre  Voigt’s  eyes  remained  fixed,  as 
f by  irresistible  fascination,  on  the  brown  door.  Oben- 
l*eizer,  suspiciously  observing  him,  looked  that  way,  too. 

“ There  is  somebody  listening  in  there ! ” he  exclaimed, 
i vith  a sharp  backward  glance  at  Bintrey. 

“There  are  two  people  listening,”  answered  Bintrey. 

“Who  are  they?  ” 

“ You  shall  see.” 

^ With  that  answer,  he  raised  his  voice  and  spoke  the  next 
vords — the  two  common  words  which  are  on  everybody’s 
^ ips,  at  every  hour  of  the  day : “ Come  in ! ” 


114 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


The  brown  door  opened.  Supported  on  Marguerite’s 
arm — his  sunburnt  colour  gone,  his  right  arm  bandaged  and 
slung  over  his  breast— Vendale  stood  before  the  murderer, 
a man  risen  from  the  dead 

In  the  momgnt  of  silence  that  followed,  the  singing  of  a 
caged  bird  in  the  courtyard  outside  was  the  one  sound  stir- 
ring in  the  rcom.  Maitre  Voigt  touched  Bintrey,  and 
pointed  to  Obei  reizer.  ^^Look  at  him!”  said  the  notary, 
in  a whisper. 

The  shock  haJ  paralysed  every  movement  in  the  villain’s 
body,  but  the  movement  of  the  blood.  His  face  was  like 
the  face  of  a corpse.  The  one  vestige  of  colour  left  in  it 
was  a livid  purple  streak  which  marked  the  course  of  the 
scar,  where  his  victim  had  wounded  him  on  the  cheek  and 
neck.  Speechli^ss,  breathless,  motionless  alike  in  eye  and 
limb,  it  seemed  as  if,  at  the  sight  of  Vendale,  the  death  to 
which  he  had  doomed  Vendale  had  struck  him  where  he 
stood. 

Somebody  ought  to  speak  to  him,”  said  Maitre  Voigt. 

Shall  I?” 

Even  at  that  moment,  Bintrey  persisted  in  silencing  the 
notary,  and  in  keeping  the  lead  in  the  proceedings  to  him- 
self. Checking  Maitre  Voigt  by  a gesture,  he  dismissed 
Marguerite  and  Vendale  in  these  words: — ^^The  object  of 
your  appearance  here  is  answered,”  he  said.  ^^If  you  will 
withdraw  for  the  present,  it  may  help  Mr.  Obenreizer  to 
recover  himself.” 

It  did  help  him.  As  the  two  passed  through  the  door, 
and  closed  it  behind  them,  he  drew  a deep  breath  of  relief. 
He  looked  round  him  for  the  chair  from  which  he  had 
risen,  and  dropped  into  it. 

Give  him  time ! ” pleaded  Maitre  Voigt 

^^No,”  said  Bintrey  ‘^1  don’t  know  what  use  he  may 
make  of  it,  if  I do.”  He  turned  once  more  to  Obenreizer, 
and  went  on.  ^^I  owe  it  to  myself,”  he  said— I don’t 
admit,  mind,  that  I owe  it  to  you — to  account  for  my  ap- 
pearance in  these  proceedings,  and  to  state  what  has  been 
done  under  my  advice,  and  on  my  sole  responsibility.  Can 
you  listen  to  me?  ” 

I can  listen  to  you.” 

Recall  the  time  when  you  started  for  Switzerland  with 
Mr.  Vendale,”  Bintrey  began.  You  had  not  left  England 
four-and-twenty  hours,  before  your  niece  committed  an  act 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


115 


f imprudence  which  not  even  your  penetration  could  fore- 
ae.  She  followed  her  promised  husband  on  his  journey, 
dthout  asking  anybody’s  advice  or  permission,  and  with- 
Lit  any  better  companion  to  protect  her  than  a Cellarman 
1 Mr.  Vendale’s  employment.” 

Why  did  she  follow  me  on  the  journey?  and  how  came 
ae  Cellarman  to  be  the  person  who  accompanied  her?  ” 

‘^She  followed  you  on  the  journey,”  answered  Bin  trey, 
because  she  suspected  there  had  been  some  serious  colli- 
Lon  between  you  and  Mr.  Vendale,  which  had  been  kept 
Bcret  from  her;  and  because  she  rightly  believed  you  to  be 
apable  of  serving  your  interests,  or  of  satisfying  your 
amity,  at  the  price  of  a crime.  As  for  the  Cellarman,  he 
ras  one,  among  the  other  people  in  Mr.  Vendale ’s  estab- 
.shment,  to  whom  she  had  applied  (the  moment  your  back 
ras  turned)  to  know  if  anything  had  happened  between 
beir  master  and  you.  The  Cellarman  alone  had  something 
0 tell  her.  A senseless  superstition,  and  a common  ac- 
ident  which  had  happened  to  his  master,  in  his  master’s 
ellar,  had  connected  Mr.  Vendale  in  this  man’s  mind  with 
he  idea  of  danger  by  murder.  Your  niece  surprised  him 
;ito  a confession,  which  aggravated  tenfold  the  terrors  that 
ossessed  her.  Aroused  to  a sense  of  the  mischief  he  had 
one,  the  man,  of  his  own  accord,  made  the  one  atonement 
a his  power.  ‘ If  my  master  is  in  danger.  Miss,’  he  said, 
it’s  my  duty  to  follow  him,  too;  and  it’s  more  than  my 
uty  to  take  care  of  you,’  The  two  set  forth  together — 
nd,  for  once,  a superstition  has  had  its  use.  It  decided 
our  niece  on  taking  the  journey;  and  it  led  the  way  to 
aving  a man’s  life’s.  Do  you  understand  me,  so  far?  ” 

^^I  understand  you,  so  far.” 

“My  first  knowledge  of  the  crime  that  you  had  com- 
aitted,”  pursued  Bintrey,  “ came  to  me  in  the  form  of  a 
etter  from  your  niece.  All  you  need  know  is  that  her 
ove  and  her  courage  recovered  the  body  of  your  victim, 
nd  aided  the  after-efforts  which  brought  him  back  to  life. 
Vhile  he  lay  helpless  at  Brieg,  under  her  care,  she  wrote 
0 me  to  come  out  to  him.  Before  starting,  I informed 
ladame  Dor  that  I knew  Miss  Obenreizer  to  be  safe,  and 
:new  where  she  was.  Madame  Dor  informed  me,  in  return, 
hat  a letter  had  come  for  your  niece,  which  she  knew  to 
>e  in  your  handwriting.  I took  possession  of  it^  and 
,rranged  for  the  forwarding  of  any  other  letters  which 


110 


NO  TTTOROIJGTIFARE. 


might  follow.  Arrived  at  Brieg,  I found  Mr.  Vendale  out 
of  danger,  and  at  once  devoted  myself  to  hastening  the  day 
of  reckoning  with  you.  Defresnier  and  Company  turned 
you  off  on  suspicion;  acting  on  information  privately  sup- 
plied by  me.  Having  stripped  you  of  your  false  character, 
the  next  thing  to  do  was  to  strip  you  of  your  authority  over 
your  niece.  To  reach  this  end,  I not  only  had  no  scruple 
in  digging  the  pitfall  under  your  feet  in  the  dark — I felt  a 
certain  professional  pleasure  in  fighting  you  with  your  own 
weapons.  By  my  advice,  the  truth  has  been  carefully  con- 
cealed from  you,  up  to  this  day.  By  my  advice,  the  trap 
into  which  you  have  walked  was  set  for  you  (you  know 
why,  now,  as  well  as  I do)  in  this  place.  There  was  but 
one  certain  way  of  shaking  the  devilish  self-control  which 
has  hitherto  made  you  a formidable  man.  That  way  has 
been  tried,  and  (look  at  me  as  you  may)  that  way  has  suc- 
ceeded. The  last  thing  that  remains  to  be  done,’^  con- 
cluded Bintrey,  producing  two  little  slips  of  manuscript 
from  his  despatch-box,  ^4s  to  set  your  niece  free.  You 
have  attempted  murder,  and  you  have  committed  forgery 
and  theft.  We  have  the  evidence  ready  against  you  in 
both  cases.  If  you  are  convicted  as  a felon,  you  know  as 
well  as  I do  what  becomes  of  your  authority  over  your 
niece.  Personally,  I should  have  preferred  taking  that 
way  out  of  it.  But  considerations  are  pressed  on  me  which 
I am  not  able  to  resist,  and  this  interview  must  end,  as  I 
have  told  you  already,  in  a compromise.  Sign  those  lines, 
resigning  all  authority  over  Miss  Obenreizer,  and  pledging 
yourself  never  to  be  seen  in  England  or  in  Switzerland 
again;  and  I will  sign  an  indemnity  which  secures  you 
against  further  proceedings  on  our  part.” 

Obenreizer  took  the  pen,  in  silence,  and  signed  his  niece’s 
release.  In  receiving  the  indemnity  in  return,  he  rose,  but 
made  no  movement  to  leave  the  room.  He  stood  looking 
at  Maitre  Voigt  with  a strange  smile  gathering  at  his  lips, 
and  a strange  light  flashing  in  his  filmy  eyes. 

What  are  you  waiting  for?  ” asked  Bintrey. 

Obenreizer  pointed  to  the  brown  door.  ^‘Call  them 
back,”  he  answered.  ‘‘I  have  something  to  say  in  their 
presence  before  I go.” 

Say  it  in  my  presence,”  retorted  Bintrey.  “I  decline 
to  call  them  back.” 

Obenreizer  turned  to  Maitre  Voigt.  ^‘Do  you  remember 


NO  THOROUGHFARB. 


117 


telling  me  that  you  once  had  an  English  client  named  Ven- 
dale?  ’’  he  asked. 

“ Well/^  answered  the  notary.  And  what  of  that? 

‘‘Maitre  Voigt,  your  clock-lock  has  betrayed  you.” 

What  do  you  mean?  ” 

“ I have  read  the  letters  and  certificates  in  your  client’s 
box.  I have  taken  copies  of  them.  I have  got  the  copies 
here.  Is  there,  or  is  there  not,  a reason  for  calling  them 
back?  ” 

For  a moment  the  notary  looked  to  and  fro,  between 
Obenreizer  and  Bintrey,  in  helpless  astonishment.  Recov- 
ering himself,  he  drew  his  brother-lawyer  aside,  and  hur- 
riedly spoke  a few  words  close  at  his  ear.  The  face  of 
Bintrey — after  first  faithfully  reflecting  the  astonishment 
on  the  face  of  Maitre  Voigt — suddenly  altered  its  expres- 
sion. He  sprang,  with  the  activity  of  a young  man,  to  the 
door  of  the  inner  room,  entered  it,  remained  inside  for  a 
minute,  and  returned  followed  by  Marguerite  and  Vendale. 
‘^Now,  Mr.  Obenreizer,”  said  Bintrey,  ^‘the  last  move  in 
the  game  is  yours.  Play  it.” 

‘^Before  I resign  my  position  as  that  young  lady’s  guar- 
dian,” said  Obenreizer,  have  a secret  to  reveal  in  which 
she  is  interested.  In  making  my  disclosure,  I am  not 
claiming  her  attention  for  a narrative  which  she,  or  any 
other  person  present,  is  expected  to  take  on  trust.  I am 
possessed  of  written  proofs,  copies  of  originals,  the  authen- 
ticity of  which  Maitre  Voigt  himself  can  attest.  Bear  that 
in  mind,  and  permit  me  to  refer  you,  at  starting,  to  a date 
long  past — the  month  of  February,  in  the  year  one  thou- 
sand eight  hundred  and  thirty-six.” 

^^Mark  the  date,  Mr.  Vendale,”  said  Bintrey. 

‘^My  first  proof,”  said  Obenreizer,  taking  a paper  from 
his  pocket-book.  Copy  of  a letter,  written  by  an  Eng- 
lish lady  (married)  to  her  sister,  a widow.  The  name  of 
the  person  writing  the  letter  I shall  keep  suppressed  until 
I have  done.  The  name  of  the  person  to  whom  the  letter 
is  written  I am  willing  to  reveal.  It  is  addressed  to  ‘ Mrs. 
Jane  Ann  Miller,  of  Groomsbridge  Wells,  England.’  ” 

Vendale  started,  and  opened  his  lips  to  speak.  Bintrey 
instantly  stopped  him,  as  he  had  stopped  Maitre  Voigt. 
^‘No,”  said  the  pertinacious  lawyer.  ‘‘Leave  it  to  me.” 

Obenreizer  went  on. 

“ It  is  needless  to  trouble  you  with  the  first  half  of  the 


118 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


letter/^  he  said.  can  give  the  substance  of  it  in  two 
words.  The  writer’s  position  at  the  time  is  this.  She  has 
been  long  living  in  Switzerland  with  her  husband — obliged 
to  live  there  for  the  sake  of  her  husband’s  health.  They 
are  about  to  move  to  a new  residence  on  the  Lake  of  Neu- 
chatel  in  a week,  and  they  will  be  ready  to  receive  Mrs. 
Miller  as  visitor  in  a fortnight  from  that  time.  This  said, 
the  writer  next  enters  into  an  important  domestic  detail. 
She  has  been  childless  for  years — she  and  her  husband 
have  now  no  hope  of  children;  they  are  lonely;  they  want 
an  interest  in  life;  they  have  decided  on  adopting  a child. 
Here  the  important  part  of  the  letter  begins;  and  here, 
therefore,  I read  it  to  you  word  for  word.”  He  folded  back 
the  first  page  of  the  letter  and  read  as  follows : 

u * * * Will  you  help  us,  my  dear  sister,  to  realise 
our  new  project?  As  English  people,  we  wish  to  adopt  an 
English  child.  This  may  be  done,  I believe,  at  the  Found- 
ling: my  husband’s  lawyers  in  London  will  tell  you  how. 
I leave  the  choice  to  you,  with  only  these  conditions  at- 
tached to  it — that  the  child  is  to  be  an  infant  under  a year 
old,  and  is  to  be  a boy  Will  you  pardon  the  trouble  I am 
giving  you,  for  my  sake;  and  will  you  bring  our  adopted 
child  to  us,  with  your  own  children,  when  you  come  to 
Neuchatel? 

must  add  a word  to  my  husband’s  wishes  in  this 
mattev  He  is  resolved  to  spare  the  child  whom  we  make 
our  own,  any  future  mortification  and  loss  of  self-respect 
which  might  be  caused  by  a discovery  of  his  true  origin. 
He  will  bear  my  husband’s  name,  and  he  will  be  brought 
up  in  the  belief  that  he  is  really  our^son.  His  inheritance 
of  what  we  have  to  leave  will  be  secured  to  him — not  only 
according  to  the  laws  of  England  in  such  cases,  but  according 
to  the  laws  of  Switzerland  also;  for  we  have  lived  so  long 
in  this  country  that  there  is  a doubt  whether  we  may  not 
be  considered  as  ‘ domiciled  ’ in  Switzerland.  The  one  pre- 
caution left  to  take  is  to  prevent  any  after-discovery  at  the 
Foundling.  Now,  our  name  is  a very  uncommon  one;  and 
if  we  appear  on  the  Register  of  the  institution,  as  the  per- 
sons adopting  the  child,  there  is  just  a chance  that  some- 
thing might  result  from  it.  Your  name,  my  dear,  is  the 
name  of  thousands  of  other  people;  and  if  you  will  consent 
to  appear  on  the  Register,  there  need  be  no  fear  of  any  dis- 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


119 


coveries  in  that  quarter.  We  are  moving,  by  the  doctor’s 
orders,  to  a part  of  Switzerland  in  which  our  circumstances 
are  quite  unknown;  and  you,  as  I understand,  are  about  to 
engage  a new  nurse  for  the  journey  when  you  come  to  see 
us.  Under  these  circumstances,  the  child  may  appear  as 
my  child,  brought  back  to  me  under  my  sister’s  care.  The 
only  servant  we  take  with  us  from  our  old  home  is  my  own 
maid,  who  can  be  safely  trusted.  As  for  the  lawyers  in 
England  and  in  Switzerland,  it  is  their  profession  to  keep 
secrets — and  we  may  feel  quite  easy  in  'that  direction.  So 
there  you  have  our  harmless  little  conspiracy!  Write  by 
return  of  post,  my  love,  and  tell  me  you  will  join  it.” 
******* 

Do  you  still  conceal  the  name  of  the  writer  of  that  let- 
ter?” asked  Vendale. 

“I  keep  the  name  of  the  writer  till  the  last,”  answered 
Obenreizer,  “ and  I proceed  to  my  second  proof — a mere  slip 
of  paper,  this  time,  as  you  see.  Memorandum  given  to 
the  Swiss  lawyer,  who  drew  the  documents  referred  to  in 
the  letter  I have  just  read,  expressed  as  follows : — ‘Adopted 
from  the  Foundling  Hospital  of  England,  3rd  March,  1836, 
a male  infant,  called,  in  the  Institution,  Walter  Wilding. 
Person  appearing  on  the  register,  as  adopting  the  child, 
Mrs.  Jane  Ann  Miller,  widow,  acting  in  this  matter  for  her 
married  sister,  domiciled  in  Switzerland.’  Patience!”  re- 
sumed Obenreizer,  as  Vendale,  breaking  loose  from  Bin- 
trey,  started  to  his  feet.  “I  shall  not  keep  the  name  con- 
cealed much  longer.  Two  more  little  slips  of  paper,  and  I 
have  done.  Third  proof!  Certificate  of  Doctor  Ganz,  still 
living  in  practice  at  Neuchatel,  dated  July,  1838.  The 
doctor  certifies  (you  shall  read  it  for  yourselves  directly), 
first,  that  he  attended  the  adopted  child  in  its  infant  mala- 
dies; second,  that,  three  months  before  the  date  of  the  cer- 
tificate, the  gentleman  adopting  the  child  as  his  son  died; 
third,  that  on  the  date  of  the  certificate,  his  widow  and  her 
maid,  taking  the  adopted  child  with  them,  left  Neuchatel  on 
their  return  to  England.  One  more  link  now  added  to  this, 
and  my  chain  of  evidence  is  complete.  The  maid  remained 
with  her  mistress  till  her  mistress’s  death,  only  a few  years 
since.  The  maid  ean  swear  to  the  identity  of  the  adopted  in- 
fant, from  his  childhood  to  his  youth — from  his  youth  to  his 
manhood,  as  he  is  now.  There  is  her  address  in  England 
— and  there,  Mr.  Vendale,  is  the  fourth,  and  final  proof!” 


120 


KO  THOROUGHFARE. 


"Why  do  you  address  yourself  to  me?^^  said  VendalCj 
as  Obenreizer  threw  the  written  address  on  the  table. 

Obenreizer  turned  on  him,  in  a sudden  frenzy  of  tri- 
umph. 

Because  you  are  the  man  / If  my  niece  marries  you, 
she  marries  a bastard,  brought  up  by  public  charity.  If 
my  niece  marries  you,  she  marries  an  impostor,  without 
name  or  lineage,  disguised  in  the  character  of  a gentleman 
of  rank  and  family.” 

"Bravo!”  cried.  Bintrey.  "Admirably  put,  Mr.  Oben- 
reizer ! It  only  wants  one  word  more  to  complete  it.  She 
marries — thanks  entirely  to  your  exertions — a man  who  in- 
herits a handsome  fortune,  and  a man  whose  origin  will 
make  him  prouder  than  ever  of  his  peasant- wife.  George 
Vendale,  as  brother-executors,  let  us  congratulate  each 
other ! Our  dear  dead  friend’s  last  wish  on  earth  is  accom- 
plished. We  have  found  the  lost  Walter  Wilding.  As 
Mr.  Obenreizer  said  just  now — you  are  the  man ! ” 

The  words  passed  by  Vendale  unheeded.  For  the  mo- 
ment he  was  conscious  of  but  one  sensation;  he  heard  but 
one  voice.  Marguerite’s  hand  was  clasping  his.  Margue- 
rite’s voice  was  whispering  to  him:  "I  never  loved  you, 
George,  as  I love  you  now  I ” 

THE  CURTAIN  FALLS. 

May-Day.  There  is  merry-making  in  Cripple  Corner, 
the  chimneys  smoke,  the  patriarchal  dining-hall  is  hung 
with  garlands,  and  Mrs.  Goldstraw,  the  respected  house- 
keeper, is  very  busy.  For,  on  this  bright  morning  the 
young  master  of  Cripple  Corner  is  married  to  its  young 
mistress,  far  away : to  wit,  in  the  little  town  of  Brieg,  in 
Switzerland,  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  Simplon  Pass  where 
she  saved  his  life. 

The  bells  ring  gaily  in  the  little  town  of  Brieg,  and  flags 
are  stretched  across  the  street,  and  rifle  shots  are  heard, 
and  sounding  music  from  brass  instruments  Streamer- 
decorated casks  of  wine  have  been  rolled  out  under  a gay 
awning  in  the  public  way  before  the  Inn,  and  there  will  be 
free  feasting  and  revelry.  What  with  bells  and  banners, 
draperies  hanging  from  windows,  explosion  of  gunpowder, 
and  reverberation  of  brass  music,  the  little  town  of  Brieg  is 
all  in  a flutter,  like  the  hearts  of  its  simple  people. 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


121 


It  was  a stormy  night  last  night,  and  the  mountains  are 
covered  with  snow.  But  the  sun  is  bright  to-day,  the 
sweet  air  is  fresh,  the  tin  spires  of  the  little  town  of  Brieg 
are  burnished  silver,  and  the  Alps  are  ranges  of  far-off 
white  cloud  in  a deep  blue  sky. 

The  primitive  people  of  the  little  town  of  Brieg  have 
built  a greenwood  arch  across  the  street,  under  which  the 
newly  married  pair  shall  pass  in  triumph  from  the  church. 
It  is  inscribed,  on  that  side,  ‘‘Honour  and  Love  to  Mar- 
guerite Vendale!”  for  the  people  are  proud  of  her  to 
enthusiasm.  This  greeting  of  the  bride  under  her  new 
name  is  affectionately  meant  as  a surprise,  and  therefore 
the  arrangement  has  been  made  that  she,  unconscious  why, 
shall  be  taken  to  the  church  by  a tortuous  back  way.  * A 
little  scheme  not  difficult  to  carry  into  execution  in  the 
crooked  little  town  of  Brieg. 

So,  all  things  are  in  readiness,  and  they  are  to  go  and 
come  on  foot.  Assembled  in  the  Inn’s  best  chamber,  fes- 
tively adorned,  are  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  the  Neucha- 
tel  notary,  the  London  lawyer,  Madame  Dor,  and  a certain 
large  mysterious  Englishman,  popularly  known  as  Monsieur 
Zhoe-Ladelle.  And  behold  Madame  Dor,  arrayed  in  a 
spotless  pair  of  gloves  of  her  own,  with  no  hand  in  the  air, 
but  both  hands  clasped  round  the  neck  of  the  bride;  to  em- 
brace whom  Madame  Dor  has  turned  her  broad  back  on  the 
company,  consistent  to  the  last. 

“Forgive  me,  my  beautiful,”  pleads  Madame  Dor,  “for 
that  I ever  was  his  she-cat ! ” 

“ She-cat,  Madame  Dor?  ” 

“Engaged  to  sit  watching  my  so  charming  mouse,”  are 
the  explanatory  words  of  Madame  Dor,  delivered  with  a 
penitential  sob. 

“ Why,  you  were  our  best  friend ! George,  dearest,  tell 
Madame  Dor.  Was  she  not  our  best  friend?  ” 

“Undoubtedly,  darling.  What  should  we  have  done 
without  her?  ” 

“ You  are  both  so  generous,”  cries  Madame  Dor,  accept- 
ing consolation,  and  immediately  relapsing.  “ But  I com- 
menced as  a she-cat  ” 

“ Ah ! But  like  the  cat  in  the  fairy-story,  good  Madame 
Dor,”  says  Vendale,  saluting  her  cheek,  “you  were  a true 
woman.  And,  being  a true  woman,  the  sympathy  of  your 
heart  was  with  true  love.” 


122 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


“I  don^t  wish  to  deprive  Madame  Dor  of  her  share  in 
the  embraces  that  are  going  on/^  Mr  Eintrey  puts  in, 
watch  in  hand,  ^^and  I don’t  presume  to  oifer  any  objection 
to  your  having  got  yourselves  mixed  together,  in  the  corner 
there,  like  the  three  Graces.  I merely  remark  that  I think 
it’s  time  we  were  moving.  What  are  your  sentiments  on 
that  subject,  Mr.  Ladle? 

Clear,  sir,”  replies  Joey,  with  a gracious  grin.  ^‘I’m 
clearer  altogether,  sir,  for  having  lived  so  many  weeks 
upon  the  surface.  I never  was  half  so  long  upon  the  sur- 
face afore,  and  it’s  done  me  a power  of  good.  At  Cripple 
Corner,  I was  too  much  below  it..  Atop  of  the  Simpleton, 
I was  a deal  too  high  above  it.  I’ve  found  the  medium 
here,  sir.  And  if  ever  I take  it  in  convivial,  in  all  the 
rest  of  my  days,  I mean  to  do  it  this  day,  to  the  toast  of 
‘ Bless  ’em  both.’  ” 

I,  too ! ” says  Eintrey.  And  now.  Monsieur  Voigt, 
let  you  and  me  be  two  men  of  Marseilles,  and  allons,  mar- 
chons,  arm-in-arm ! ” 

They  go  down  to  the  door,  where  others  are  waiting  for 
them,  and  they  go  quietly  to  the  church,  and  the  happy 
marriage  takes  place.  While  the  ceremony  is  yet  in  prog- 
ress, the  notary  is  called  out.  When  it  is  finished,  he 
has  returned,  is  standing  behind  Vendale,  and  touches  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

Go  to  the  side  door,  one  moment.  Monsieur  Vendale. 
Alone.  Leave  Madame  to  me.” 

At  the  side  door  of  the  church,  are  the  same  two  men 
from  the  Hospice.  They  are  snow-stained  and  travel- worn. 
They  wish  him  joy,  and  then  each  lays  his  broad  hand 
upon  Vendale’s  breast,  and  one  says  in  a low  voice,  while 
the  other  steadfastly  regards  him : 

^^It  is  here,  monsieur.  Your  litter.  The  very  same.” 
^^My  litter  is  here?  Why?  ” 

‘^Hush!  For  the  sake  of  Madame.  Your  companion  of 
that  day ” 

What  of  him?  ” 

The  man  looks  at  his  comrade,  and  his  comrade  takes 
him  up.  Each  keeps  his  hand  laid  earnestly  on  Vendale’s 
breast. 

He  had  been  living  at  the  first  Kefuge,  monsieur,  for 
some  days.  The  weather  was  now  good,  now  bad.” 

Yes?  ” 


NO  THOROUGHFARE. 


123 


He  arrived  at  our  Hospice  the  day  before  yesterday, 
and,  having  refreshed  himself  with  sleep  on  the  floor  be- 
fore the  Are,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  was  resolute  to  go  on, 
before  dark,  to  the  next  Hospice.  He  had  a great  fear  of 
that  part  of  the  way,  and  thought  it  would  be  worse  to- 
morrow. 

‘‘Yes?’’ 

He  went  on  alone.  He  had  passed  the  gallery,  when 
an  avalanche — like  that  which  fell  behind  you  near  the 
Bridge  of  the  Ganther ? 

“ Killed  him? 

‘‘  We  dug  him  out,  suffocated  and  broken  all  to  pieces ! 
But,  monsieur,  as  to  Madame.  We  have  brought  him  here 
on  the  litter  to  be  buried.  We  must  ascend  the  street  out- 
side. Madame  must  not  see.  It  would  be  an  accursed 
thing  to  bring  the  litter  through  the  arch  across  the  street, 
until  Madame  has  passed  through.  As  you  descend,  we 
who  accompany  the  litter  will  set  it  down  on  the  stones  of 
the  street  the  second  to  the  right,  and  will  stand  before  it. 
But  do  not  let  Madame  turn  her  head  towards  the  street 
the  second  to  the  right.  There  is  no  time  to  lose.  Madame 
will  be  alarmed  by  your  absence.  Adieu! 

Vendale  returns  to  his  bride,  and  draws  her  hand  through 
his  unmaimed  arm.  A pretty  procession  awaits  them  at 
the  main  door  of  the  church.  They  take  their  station  in 
it,  and  descend  the  street  amidst  the  ringing  of  the  bells, 
the  firing  of  the  guns,  the  waving  of  the  flags,  the  playing 
of  the  music,  the  shouts,  the  smiles,  and  tears,  of  the  ex- 
cited town.  Heads  are  uncovered  as  she  passes,  hands  are 
kissed  to  her,  all  the  people  bless  her.  Heaven’s  bene- 
diction on  the  dear  girl ! See  where  she  goes  in  her  youth 
and  beauty;  she.  who  so  nobly  saved  his  life!  ” 

Near  the  corner  of  the  street  the  second  to  the  right,  he 
speaks  to  her,  and  calls  her  attention  to  the  windows  on 
the  opposite  side.  The  corner  well  passed,  he  says:  ^^Do 
not  look  round,  my  darling,  for  a reason  that  I have,”  and 
turns  his  head.  Then,  looking  back  along  the  street,  he 
sees  the  litter  and  its  bearers  passing  up  alone  under  the 
arch,  as  he  and  she  and  their  marriage  train  go  down  towards 
the  shining  valley. 


THE  END, 


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